^LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


A    TRUE    CALEDONIAN. 


fsm 


MASTERPIECES  OF  PROSE 


SELECTED    FROM    THE    WORKS    OF 
THE   GREATEST  ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN    WRITERS 


FROM   CHAUCER    TO    RUSKIN    AND    LONGFELLOW 


PRO  FUSEL  Y  ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 

D.     LOTHROP     COMPANY 

1893 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 

BY 

D.  LOTHROP  COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 

THERE  is  no  royal  road  to  literary  success.  He  who  writes  entertainingly  writes  suc- 
cessfully ;  he  who  writes  nobly  writes  for  immortality.  The  world's  masterpieces  of  liter- 
ature are  not  confined  to  any  one  age ;  neither  do  they  always  need  the  halo  of  time  or 
the  flavor  of  antiquity  to  gain  acceptance.  Genius  works  as  well  in  one  generation  as  in 
another,  and  the  writer  of  to-day  is  capable  of  as  good  and  as  lasting  work  as  was  he  who 
created  in  the  time  of  Addison,  or  he  who  labored  in  the  days  of  Bacon. 

So  these  "  Masterpieces  of  Prose,"  gathered  in  this  volume,  are  selected,  rather  as 
specimens  than  as  a  completed  galaxy,  from  the  writers  of  to-day  and  from  those  to  whom 
age  has  brought  the  verdict  "  classic."  In  the  main,  they  are  but  brief  extracts,  chosen 
rather  to  afford  a  taste  than  a  full  banquet  with  each  author.  If  they  shall  serve  as  an  en- 
couragement to  more  extended  reading,  or  a  closer  acquaintance  with  any  or  all  of  the 
writers  represented  in  this  volume,  the  labor  of  choice  and  selection  will  not  have  been  in 
vain,  and  the  idea  of  grouping  into  a  single  volume  representative  extracts  from  a  whole 
library  of  English  authors  will  have  proved  itself  a  wise  and  happy  suggestion. 

Both  England  and  America  have  been  drawn  upon  for  sources  of  selection,  and  in 
giving  this  volume  to  the  public  due  credit  and  hearty  thanks  are  herewith  accorded  to  the 
following  American  publishers  by  whose  permission,  or  under  arrangement  with  whom, 
copyrighted  matter  has  been  allowed  to  appear  in  this  volume  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co., 
Roberts  Brothers,  Estes  &  Lauriat,  and  Lee  &  Shepard,  of  Boston  ;  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  and  Fords,  Howard  & 
Hulbert,  of  New  York;  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company  and  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  of 
Philadelphia. 


CONTENTS 


Contentment       .... 
The  All-conquering  Power  of  Truth 
At  Rugby    . 

My  Garden          .... 
(From 

On   Affairs  in  America 
A  Country  Parish 
Limitations  of  Free  Speech 
Deacon  Marble's  Trout 


fsaak  Walton 
Jo/m  Mi/ton 
Thomas  Arnold  . 
Mary  Abigail  Dodge 
Country  Living  and  Thinking"} 
Lord  Chatham 
Charles  Kingsley 
Lord  Erskine 
Henry  Ward  Beecher 
(From  "  Norwood.") 


Christian  in  Doubting  Castle 


John  Bunyan 
(From  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."} 

The  Pleasures  of  Private  Life     .         .         .         George  Washington 
On  the  Death  of  an  Old  Friend  .         .         Charles  Lamb 

Upon  Riches       ......         Geoffrey  Chaucer 

(From  "  Tales  of  Afelibeus") 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 
(From  "  Old  town  Folks."} 

Edmund  Spenser 
Thomas  Carlyle  . 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 
(From  "  Essays"} 

Thomas  Fuller 
The  Holy  and  Profane  State"} 


Sam  Mends  the  Clock 

The  Irish  Bard    . 

London 

Compensation 

The  Good  Wife  . 


(  From 


Solitude 


Spring  Prospects 


Henry  David  Thoreau 
(From  "  Walden."} 

Henry  David  Thoreau 
(From  "  Early  Spring  in  Massachusetts."} 
On  Mr.  Foot's  Resolution  ....         Robert  Y.  Hayne 

Reply  to  Hay ne  .  .         .         .         Daniel  Webster   . 

The  Constitution  and  the  Union  Daniel  Webster   . 

On  Pride     .......         Sir  Thomas  Broume    . 

Ben  Jonson          .  ...  John  Dryden 


9 
10 
ii 

12 

'3 
14 
'5 

16 


21 
22 
23 

24 

28 
29 
30 

32 

33 

34 

35 
36 
38 
41 
42 


vi  CONTENTS. 

On  Studies          ......         Francis  Bacon  „         .  »•> 

On  Bacon Ben  Jonson  ....  44 

Sir  Roger  De  Coverley       ....        Joseph  Addison     ....  44 

(From  "  Sir  Roger  De  Coverley") 

The  Strength  of  True  Love         .         .         .         Sir  Richard  Steele       ...  47 

(From  "  The  Tatter."} 

Talk Oliver  Wendell  Holmes         .         .  48 

(From  "  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table"} 
Wouter  Van  Twiller   .....          Washington  In'ing      ...  49 

(From  "  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York."} 

Letter  to  Mrs.  Thrale  ....         Samuel  Johnson  ....  51 

The  Dominie  and  Meg  Merrilies         .         .         Sir  Walter  Scott          .         .  ci 

(From  "  Guy  Manner  ing"} 

The  Story  of  "  Waverley "  .         .         .         .         Sir  Walter  Scott          ...  56 

The  Temperance  Preacher          .         .         .         Pansy  (Mrs.  G.  R.  Alden}       .         .  57 

(From  "John  Remington,  Martyr"} 

Garden  Ethics Charles  Dudley  Warner      .         ,  58 

(from  "My  Summer  in  a  Garden") 

Little  Pearl  in  the  Forest   .         .         .  Nathaniel  Hawthorne .  59 

(From  "  The  Scarlet  Letter.") 

Footprints  of  Angels Henry  W.Longfellow.  .  61 

(From  "  Hyperion."} 

The  Good  Man        ) 

The  Good  Woman  )  •         -         -  Samuel  Richardson      ...  63 

John  and  Lorna .  R.  D.  Blackmore        ...  64 

(From  "  Lorna  Doone."} 

Carlyle  to  his  Mother          ....         Thomas  Carlyle  ....  65 

On  the  Middle  Station  of  Life    .         .         .         David  Hume       ....  66 

Melons Bret  Harte          ....  68 

(From  "Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands,  and  other  Sketches."} 

On  Refusal  to  Negotiate  with  Napoleon     .          William  Pitt       ....  70 

Parody  on  the  Speeches  of  Charles  II.       .         Andrew  Marvell .         ...  72 

The  Destiny  of  the  Republic      .         .         .         Alexander  Hamilton  Stephens       .  73 

News  from  the  Front  .         .         .         .         M.  E.  M.  Davis          ...  73 

(From  "  ///  War- Times  at  La  Rose  Blanche."} 

The  Gettysburg  Address     ....         Abraham  Lincoln         .         .         .  75 

The  Midnight  Sun      .         .  .         .         Bayard  Jaylor    ....  76 

(From  "  Northern  Travel") 

The  Whistle        .  ....         Benjamin  Franklin      ...  78 

Inaugural  Address      ....  George  Washington      ...  79 


CONTENTS.  vii 

The  Essential  Principles  of  Government     .         Thomas  Jefferson          ...  79 

Conciliation         ......         Edmund  Burke  .  .  81 

On  the  Kansas-Nebraska  Bill      .         .         .          Charles  Sumner  ....  83 

Speech  before  the  Virginia  Convention       .         Patrick  Henry     ....  87 

The  Last  Train  North         ....          George  Washington  Cable     .         .  89 

(From  "Dr.  Sevier") 
The  Grasshopper  and  the  Ant     .         .         .          George  T.  Lanigan       ...  92 

(From  "^sop's  Fables.") 
The  Little  Women's  Romance    .         .         .         Louisa  M.  Alcott         ...  92 

(From  "  Little  Women:') 
The  Wonderful  Tar-baby  Story  .         .         .        Joel  Chandler  Harris   ...  97 

(From  "  Uncle  Remus.") 

How  Mr.  Rabbit  was  too  sharp  for  Mr.  Fox       Joel  Chandler  Harris   ...  98 

(From  "  Uncle  Remus.") 

Torture Edgar  Allan  Poe         .         .         .  TOO 

(From  "  The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum.") 
To  Thomas  Murray     .....          Thomas  Carlyle  ....  103 

To  his  Mother Arthur  Penrhyn  Stanley      .         .  104 

Nil  Nisi  Bonum  ......          William  Makepeace  Thackeray     .  105 

Lorn  a  Doone       ....  R.  D.  Blackmore          .         .         .  106 

(From  "  Lorna  Doone") 
The  Tyranny  of  Andros      ....        John  Fiske  .         .         .         .         .  no 

(From  '•''Beginnings  of  New  England") 

The  Long  Path Oliver  Wendell  Holmes         .         .  1 1 1 

(From  "  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table") 
Lucy  and  the  "  Rajah "  Charles  Reade      .         .         .         .  1 1 1 

(From  "  Love  me  Little,  Love  me  Long") 
Twenty-three       ......         Charles  Dickens  ...  114 

(From  "  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities") 
"  De  Baptizin'  in  Elkhorn  Creek "       .         .        James  Lane  Allen         .         .         .  116 

(From  "  Two  Kentucky  Gentlemen  of  the  Old  School") 
Scotchmen.         ......          Oliver  Goldsmith          .         .         .  117 

On  England's  Foreign  Policy      .         .         .        John  Bright         ....  118 

Virtue  Alone  Beautiful        ....        John  G.  Whittier         ...  120 

Cuvier Andrew  P.  Peabody     .         .         .  121 

(From  "  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Oration") 
Is  Gardening  a  Pleasure  ?  ....         Oliver  Bell  Bunce        .         .         .  122 

(From  "  Bachelor  Bluff."} 

The  Rose  of  Glengary         ....        John  Esten  Cooke  124 

(From  "  The  Last  of  the  Foresters.") 


viii  CONTENTS. 

The  Fishwife       .  .  .         Norman  Madeod         .         .         .  125 

An  English  Sunset      ,  Mrs.  Sara  Coleridge    .  .  126 

Secession Samuel  Sullivan  Cox   .         .         .  126 

Covetousness Robert  South        .         .         .         .  131 

Bergerson  and  Moe    .         .         .         .         .         Hjalmar  Hjorth  Boyesen      .         .  131 

(From  "  Vagabond  Tales.''} 
Palm  Sunday       ......         Sir  Samuel  Romilly     .         .         .  133 

Mr.  Barkis  ......         Charles  Dickens  .         .         .         .  134 

(From  "David  Copperfield."} 
Spring  in  New  England      ....          Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson      .  137 

(From  "  April  Days."} 
Continental  Congress          ....         Richard  Hildreth         .         .         .  138 

The  Siege  of  Leyden  ....        John  Lothrop  Motley    .         .         .  141 

Popular  Culture  .  John  Morley       ..         .         .         .  143 

A  Question  of  Supremacy  ....         Frederick  William  Shelton    .         .  144 

(From  "  Up  the  River."} 
On  the  Art  of  Living  with  others         .         .         Arthur  Helps       ....  145 

The  Invention  of  Gunpowder      .         .         .         Edward  Gibbon  ....  146 

(From  "  Memoirs  of  my  Life  and  Writings."} 
A  Lesson  in  Patriotism        ....         Edward  Everett  Hale  .         .  148 

(From  "  A  Man  without  a  Country."} 
To  his  Daughter          .....         Norman  Madeod          .         .         .  150 

On  History          ......         Thomas  Babbington  Macaulay      .  151 

(From  "  Essay  on  History."} 
Democracy          ......        James  Russell  Lowell  .         .  152 

(From  Address  given  at  Birmingham,  England,   October,  1884.) 
Selfishness  versus  Nobility          .         .         .        James  Anthony  Froude          .         .  153 

(From  "  The  Science  of  History"} 
Hieronymus  and  Tiddlekins       .         .         .         Katherine  Sherwood  Banner  McDowell     155 

(From  "  Harper's  Magazine."} 
Obedience  to  Law       .....         Ralph  Waldo  Emerson         .         .  161 

(From  "  Spiritual  Laws."} 
War  the  Destroyer      .....         Charles  James  Fox       .         .         .  161 

The  Gift  of  Gold George  Eliot        .  162 

(From  "  Silas  Marner"} 
Of  Kings' Treasuries .         ....        John  Ru skin        .  .  168 

(From  "  Sesame  and  Lilies"} 
Old  Concord       ....  .         Margaret  Sidney     .         .         .         .         170 

(From  "  Old  Concord ;  Her  Highways  and  Byways"} 
Protection  .....  .         Richard  Cobden  ....  175 


CONTENTS.  ix 

To  his  Wife Sir  Richard  Steele        ...  176 

On  the  War  of  1812 Henry  Clay         .         .         .  177 

A  Talent  for  Music     .....         Henry  Harland  (Sidney  Luskd)  .  178 

(From  "  My  Uncle  Florimond"} 

The  Militia  Bill John  Randolph     .         .         .         .  181 

On  Conversation         .....          Thomas  De  Quincey     .         .         .  182 

Tourists  on  the  Continent  ....          William  Makepeace  Thackeray     .  184 

The  Miracle  of  Nature        ....          Charles  Kingsley          .         .         .  184 

(From  "  My  Winter  Garden"*) 

Mrs.  Potiphar's  "  Cabinet  Shop "        .         .         George  William  Curtis         .         .  186 

(From  "  Potiphar  Papers"} 

An  Appeal  for  Union Henry  Clay          ....  189 

Justice  for  the  Slave   .....          Wendell  Phillips          .         .         .  191 

Raleigh's  Last  Words  to  his  Wife       .         .          Walter  Raleigh    .         .         .         .  192 

Death,  the  Conqueror         ....        Jeremy  Taylor      ....  193 

Greatness  and  Ability         ....          Theodore  Parker           .         .         .  195 

Annie  and  Lawrence  .....         Frank  R.  Stockton        .         .         .  197 

(From  "  The  Late  Mrs.  Null."} 

The  Ethics  of  Laughter       ....         Henry  W.  Shaw  (Josh  Billings)  .  197 

(From  "Josh  Billings :  his  works."'} 

Roger  Williams George  Bancroft  ....  199 

The  Death  of  Col.  Newcome       .         .         .          William  Makepeace  Thackeray     .  200 

(From  "  The  Neu>comes.tv) 

To  Grosvenor  C.  Bedford  ....         Robert  Southey    ....  202 

Making  a  Friend George  MacDonald      .         .         .  203 

(From  "  Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood"} 

To  Lady  Holland        .....         Sydney  Smith      ....  206 

To  Bernard  Barton Charles  Lamb      .         .         .         .  206 

Every  Man  Great William  Ellery  Channing    .         .  207 

(From  "  Address  on  Self-Culture."} 

The  Alhambra  by  Moonlight       .         .         .          Washington  Irving      .         .         .  209 

(From  "  The  Alhambra."} 

Nipped  in  the  Bud      .....         Richard  Malcolm  Johnston   .         .  210 

(From  "  Dukesborough  Tales."} 

To  Robert  Ainslie       .         .         .         .         .         Robert  Burns      .         .         .         .  215 

The  Advent  of  Peace          .         .         .         .         Thomas  Paine     .         .         .         .  215 

(From  "  The  Crisis."} 

Homer's  Inventive  Power  ....         Alexander  Pope  .         .         .         .  217 

(From  "  Preface  to  the  Iliad."} 

To  H.  S.  Williams                                                       Charlotte  Bronte '.  218 


x  CONTENTS. 

Mr.  Casaubon's  Romance  .         .         .         .          George  Eliot  218 

(From  " Middlemarch."} 

The  White  Rose  Road         ....         Sarah  Ornejewctt       .  220 

(From  "  Strangers  and  Wayfarers."} 

Miss  Maloney  on  the  Chinese  Question      .         Mary  Mapes  Dodge     .  223 

(From  "  Theophilus  and  Others."} 

To  Mrs.  Jane  Lawcler          .         .         .                   Oliver  Goldsmith  225 

The  Death  of  Little  Nell    ....          Charles  Dickens       .  .                   226 

(from  "  Old  Curiosity  Shop."} 

On  American  Institutions  ....        James  Abram  Garfield         .  .             227 

On  the  War         ......         Stephen  Arnold  Douglas       .  .             228 

For  Freedom  of  Trade        ....         Frank  R.  Hurd .         .         .  .             229 

John  Keats  to  William  Reynolds         .         .        John  Keats  .....  229 

Mrs.  Carlyle  to  her  Husband      .         .         .         Mrs.  Thomas  Carlyle            .  .             230 

Sweetness  and  Light  .....         Matthew  Arnold .         .         .  .             231 

Fashionable  Life  at  Kinkaird  House           .         Thomas  Carlyle  ....  232 

Petition  of  Thugs        .....          Walter  Savngc  Landor         .  .             233 

The  Battle  of  Tlascala        .         .         .         .          William  Hickling  Prescott    .  .             234 

(From  "  Conquest  of  Mexico."} 

Aunt  Maria  and  the  Autophone  .         .         .          Thomas  Frederick  Crane       .  .             239 

(From  "  Harper's  Magazine"} 

Joel  at  Work       ......         Margaret  Sidney ....  242 

(From  "  Five  Little  Peppers  Midway"} 

Cradle         .         .         .         .         .         .         .          Thomas  Hood      .         .         .  .             243 

Kin  Beyond  Sea          .....          William  Ewart  Gladstone   .  .             244 

A  True  Caledonian     .....          Charles  Lamb      .                  .  .             250 

Sight  and  Insight        .....          Thomas  Starr  King     .         .  .             252 

An  Apology  for  English      ....         Roger  Ascham      ....  253 

The  Justice  of  Rienzi  the  Tribune      .         .         Lord  Lytton         ....  254 

(From  "Rienzi."} 

An  Encounter  with  the  Iroquois          .         .        James  Fenimore  Cooper         .  .             257 

(From  "  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans"} 

Unselfishness      ......         Lydia  Maria  Child      .         .  .             266 

Philip  and  Leigh         .....         Blanche  Willis  Howard       .  .             266 

(From  "  One  Summer."} 

To  Miss  Mitford Benjamin  Robert  Haydon     .  .             269 

In  Praise  of  Poetry Sir  Philip  Sidney         .         .  .             271 

The  Footprint  on  the  Shore        .         .         .         Daniel  De  Foe     ....  273 

(From  "  Robinson  Crusoe"} 

The  Rights  of  Man Thomas  Jefferson           .         .  .              276 

(From  "  Preamble  to  Declaration  of  Independence"} 


CONTENTS.  xi 

To  William  Robertson         ....         David  Hume       .         .  276 

"Stay" Miss  Mulock        ....  277 

(From  '•''John  Halifax,  Gentleman"} 
The  True  Track          .....        Josiah  Gilbert  Holland         .  278 

(From  "  Timothy  Titcomb 's  Letters  to  Young  People'''} 
Spiritual  Emancipation        ....         Henry  James       ...  279 

(From  "  Democracy  and  its  Issue."} 
A  Sudden  Hurricane  .....          William  Gilmore  Simms      .         .  280 

(From  "  The  Partisan?'} 
Italian  Life          ......         Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu      .  286 

Progress William  E.  Gladstone  .  287 

(From  "  The  Might  of  Right ^} 

Personal  Influence Thomas  Hughes  ....  289 

(From  "  True  Manliness"} 
Mr.  Tarbox  and  Zosephine          .         .         .         George  W.  Cable          .  291 

(From  "  Au  Large."} 
An  Encounter  with  a  Panther     .         .         .         Charles  Brockden  Brown      .  294 

(From  "  Edgar  Huntley."} 
To  a  Child  ......         Thomas  Hood      .         .  296 

The  Premier  Gladstone       ....          Theodore  L.  Cuyler      .  .  298 

(From  "  Right  to  the  Point."} 
The  Fourth  of  July     .....        John  Adams         .         .  299 

The  Private  Character  of  Webster      .         .         Rufus  Choate       .         .  .  300 

The  Sabbath       ......         Frederick  W.  Robertson        .         .  302 

(From  "  Well-Springs  of  Wisdom"} 
Joan    .         .         .         .  .         .         .         Frances  Hodgson  Burnett     .         .  303 

{From  "  That  Lass  o1  Lowrie's."} 
A  Question  of  Loving          ....          Jlwmas  Hardy    .         .         .  304 

(From  "  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd."} 

Reform Joint  Milton         .  309 

Country  Hospitality    .....        Jonathan  Sivift   ...  310 

The  American  Indian          ....         E f bridge  S.  Brooks      .         .         .  311 

(From  "  The  Story  of  the  American  Indian."} 

Burr  and  Blennerhasset      ....          William  Wirt      ...  313 

Isabella  of  Spain         .....          William  Hickling  Prescott    .         .  315 

{From  "  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella."} 
The  Legend  of  the  Date-tree       .         .         .         Charles  Etienne  Arthur  Gayarre'  317 

(From  "History  of  Louisiana"} 

A  Scene  in  the  Forecastle  ....         Herman  Melville  .  318 

(From  "  Omoo."} 


xii  CONTENTS. 

Captain  Cuttle's  Island       .  Charles  Dickens  ,  .  321 

(From  "  Dombey  and  Son") 

Barberry  Island  ....          Sophie  Swett  .....         326 

(From  "Good  Company."'} 

The  Town  Pump         .....         Nathaniel  Hawthorne  .         „         „  327 

(From  "  Twice-Told  Tales."} 
Adam  and  Dinah         .  .         .          George  Eliot        ....  329 

(From  '•'•Adam  Bede."} 
Indolence   .......         Samuel  Smiles      .  „  331 

(From  "  The  Art  of  Living."} 
The  Tournament         .....         Sir  Walter  Scott .         .         .         .  332 

(From  "  Ivanhoe."} 
The  Culture  of  the  Puritans         .         .         .        John  Gorham  Palfrey .         .         .  338 

(From  "A  History  of  New  England."} 
Bess  and  the  Snake    .....          William  Gilmore  Simms      .         .  340 

(From"  Yemassee."} 
Home          .......         Samuel  Smiles     ....  343 

(From  "  The  Art  of  Living."} 
The  Tower  of  London         ....         Charles  F.  Browne  (Artemus  Ward}       344 

(From  "  Punch,  1866.") 

Tilly  Bones Elizabeth  Whitfield  Bellamy         .  347 

(From  "  The  Manhattan  Magazine."} 
In  Venice   .......         Samuel  Rogers     ....  350 

The  Standard  of  Speech     ....         Noah  Webster      ....  353 

(From  "  Dissertations  on  the  English  Language"} 
Dramatic  Realism       .....         Charles  Dickens  ....  356 

Whittier  with  the  Children  .         .         .         Margaret  Sidney     ....         357 

(From  "  Whittier  with  the  Children."} 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


A  True  Caledonian          .         .         .       Frontis. 

"  If  he  would  find  content  "     .  g 

John  Milton 10 

Thomas  Arnold n 

Into  my  garden 12 

Charles  Kingsley 14 

The  rectory  at  Eversley .         .         .         .         .  15 

The  haunt  of  the  trout 16 

John  Bunyau 17 

Bedford   Jail,  where   the  Pilgrim's   Progress 

was  written   ......  19 

The  Stuart  Portrait  of  Washington         .         .  21 

Charles  Lamb 22 

Geoffrey  Chaucer 23 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 24 

Mending  the  clock           .....  25 

Edmund  Spenser     ......  28 

Thomas  Carlyle 29 

Emerson's  home  in  Concord,  Mass.        .         .  30 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  .         .         .         .         .  31 

Henry  David  Thoreau     .....  33 

Daniel  Webster 37 

Francis  Bacon 43 

Joseph  Addison       ......  45 

Sir  Walter  Scott 52 

Hawthorne's  study  at  "  Wayside  "          .         .  60 

Henry  W.  Longfellow 61 

Melons 69 

Alexander  Hamilton  Stephens        ...  73 

Abraham  Lincoln 75 

Bayard  Taylor 76 

Benjamin  Franklin           .....  77 

Statue  of  Franklin,  Independence  Hall,  Pa.  .  78 

Thomas  Jefferson 80 

Sumner's  Study 83 

Already  in  the  field 85 

The  Alcott  home 93 

Dean  Stanley 104 

Gadshill.  —  The  home  of  Charles  Dickens    .  114 

Considering  the  next  text       .         .        .        .  116 

John  G.  Whittier 120 

A  fisher  lad 127 

Mr.  Barkis 134 

In  a  sea  of  glory 137 


A  promise  of  Spring 139 

Experts  in  the  art  of  war        ....  147 

The  quick-witted  youth 156 

The  Pop  family       ......  157 

A  neighbor's  boy 159 

Bonaparte 163 

Mr.  Ruskin's  house,  Brantwood      .         .         .  169 

The  Wayside  .         .         .         .         .         .         .  171 

Visitors'  memorial  on  the  site  of  Thoreau's 

hut 173 

On  the  road  to  "  Nine  Acre  Corner  "      .         .  174 
Gregory   surprises    Mr.     Finkelstein   at    the 

hand  organ 179 

Following  the  leader       .....  183 

A  sight  to  make  one's  pulses  throb         .         .  185 

Guests  of  the  Potiphars  ....  187 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh          .....  192 

The  old  mill 199 

George  MacDonald         .....  203 

Miss  Julia  Louisa  Wilkins      .         .         .         .  211 

Homer 217 

The  broad  open  country          ....  220 

The  waiter-man        ......  224 

James  Abram  Garfield 227 

William  E.  Gladstone     .....  245 

A  typical  Caledonian 251 

Arrayed  for  defense 254 

Ready  for  war          ......  258 

The  honeysuckle  grew  all  about     .         .         .  267 

At  milking-time 270 

Weathering  a  gale 273 

A  sudden  storm 281 

One  type  of  Italian  beauty      ....  286 

Rugby  School 290 

Bathsheba 305 

Milton  at  the  organ 309 

Under  sail 319 

"  The  stormy  winds  do  blow  "...  324 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 328 

The  Tower  of  London 346 

Tilly  on  the  plantation 348 

A  leap  from  the  Rialto 351 

"Sweet  Kenoza  from  the  shore,  and  Watch- 
ing Hills  beyond  "  359 


MASTERPIECES  OF  PROSE 


CONTENTMENT. 


I  KNEW  a  man  that  had  health  and  riches,  and  several  houses,  all  beautiful  and 
ready  furnished,  and  would  often  trouble  himself  and  family  to  be  removing  from 
one  house  to  another  ;  and  being  asked  by  a  friend  why  he  removed  so  often  from 
one  house  to  another,  replied,  "  It  was  to  find  content  in  some  of  them."  But  his 
friend,  knowing  his  temper,  told  him,  "  If  he  would  find  content  in  any  of  his  houses, 
he  must  leave  himself  behind  him  ; 
for  content  would  never  dwell  but  in 
a  meek  and  quiet  soul."  And  this 
may  appear,  if  we  read  and  consider 
what  our  Saviour  says  in  St.  Mat- 
thew's Gospel,  for  He  there  says, 
"  Blessed  be  the  merciful,  for  they 
shall  obtain  mercy.  Blessed  be  the 
pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God. 
Blessed  be  the  poor  in  spirit,  for 
theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
And  blessed  be  the  meek,  for  they 
shall  possess  the  earth."  Not  that 
the  meek  shall  not  also  obtain  mercy, 
and  see  God,  and  be  comforted,  and  at 
last  come  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ; 

"IF   HE   WOULD    FIND   CONTENT." 

but,    in    the    meantime,  he,   and    he 

only,  possesses  the  earth,  as  he  goes  toward  that  kingdom  of  heaven,  by  being 
humble  and  cheerful,  and  content  with  what  his  good  God  has  allotted  him.  He 
has  no  turbulent,  repining,  vexatious  thoughts  that  he  deserves  better  ;  nor  is 
vexed  when  he  sees  others  possessed  of  more  honor  or  more  riches  than  his  wise 
God  has  allotted  for  his  share  ;  but  he  possesses  what  he  has  with  a  meek  and  con- 
tented quietness,  such  a  quietness  as  makes  his  very  dreams  pleasing,  both  to 
God  and  himself. 

ISAAK.  WALTON. 


10 


THE     ALL-CONQUERING     POWER     OF    TRUTH. 


THE     ALL-CONQUERING     POWER     OF     TRUTH. 

THOUGH  all  the  winds  of  doc- 
trine were  let  loose  to  play  upon  the 
earth,  so  Truth  be  in  the  field,  we 
do  injuriously,  by  licensing  and  pro- 
hibiting, to  misdoubt  her  strength. 
Let  her  and  falsehood  grapple  ;  who 
ever  knew  Truth  put  to  the  worst 
in  a  free  and  open  encounter  ?  Her 
confuting  is  the  best  and  surest 
suppressing.  He  who  hears  what 
praying  there  is  for  light  and  clear 
knowledge  to  be  sent  down  among 
us,  would  think  of  other  matters  to 
be  constituted  beyond  the  discip- 
line of  Geneva,  famed  and  fabricked 
already  to  our  hands.  Yet  when 
the  new  life  which  we  beg  for  shines 
in  upon  us,  there  be  who  envy  and 
oppose,  if  it  come  not  first  in  at 
their  casements.  What  a  collusion 
is  this,  when  as  we  are  exhorted 
by  the  wise  man  to  use  diligence, 
"to  seek  for  wisdom  as  for  hidden 
treasures,"  early  and  late,  that  another  order  shall  enjoin  us  to  know  nothing  but 
by  statute  !  When  a  man  hath  been  laboring  the  hardest  labor  in  the  deep  mines 
of  knowledge,  hath  furnished  out  his  findings  in  all  their  equipage,  drawn  forth  his 
reasons,  as  it  were  a  battle  ranged,  scattered  and  defeated  all  objections  in  his  way, 
calls  out  his  adversary  into  the  plain,  offers  him  the  advantage  of  wind  and  sun,  if 
he  please,  only  that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint  of  argument  ;  for  his  opponents 
then  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  to  keep  a  narrow  bridge  of  licensing  where  the 
challenger  should  pass,  though  it  be  valor  enough  in  soldiership,  is  but  weakness 
and  cowardice  in  the  wars  of  Truth.  For  who  knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong,  next 
to  the  Almighty?  She  needs  no  policies,  nor  stratagems,  nor  licensings,  to  make 
her  victorious  ;  those  are  the  shifts  and  the  "defenses  that  error  uses  against  her 
power;  give  her  but  room,  and  do  not  bind  her  when  she  sleeps. 

JOHN  MILTON. 


JOHN   MILTON. 


AT    RUGBY. 


ii 


AT      RUGBY. 


RUGBY,  October  12,  1835. 

.  .  .  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  enjoyed  our  fortnight  at  Rugby  before  the  school 
opened.  It  quite  reminded  me  of  Oxford,  when  Mary  and  I  used  to  sit  out  in  the 
garden  under  the  enormous  elms  of  the  school-field,  which  almost  overhang  the 
house,  and  saw  the  line  of  our  battlemented  roofs  and  the  pinnacles  and  cross  of 
our  chapel  cutting  the  unclouded  sky.  And  I  had  divers  happy  little  matches  at 
cricket  with  my  own  boys  in  the  school-field,  on  the  very  cricket-ground  of  the 
"  eleven,"  that  is,  of  the  best  players  in  the  school,  on  which,  when  the  school  is 
assembled,  no  profane  person  may  encroach.  ...  It  would  overpay  me  for  far 
greater  uneasiness  and  labor  than  I  have  ever  had  at  Rugby,  to  see  the  feeling  both 
towards  the  school  and  towards  myself  personally  with  which  some  of  our  boys  have 
been  lately  leaving  us.  One  stayed  with  us  in  the  house  for  his  last  week  at 
Rugby,  dreading  the  approach  of 
the  day  which  should  take  him  to 
Oxford,  although  he  was  going  up 
to  a  most  delightful  society  of  old 
friends  ;  and,  when  he  actually  came 
to  take  his  leave,  I  really  think  that 
the  parting  was  like  that  of  a  father 
and  his  son.  And  it  is  delightful  to 
me  to  find  how  glad  all  the  better 
boys  are  to  come  back  here  after 
they  have  left  it,  and  how  much 
they  seem  to  enjoy  staying  with  me  ; 
while  a  sure  instinct  keeps  at  a  dis- 
tance all  whose  recollections  of  the 
place  are  connected  with  uncomfor- 
table reflections.  Meantime  I  write 
nothing,  and  read  barely  enough  to 
keep  my  mind  in  the  state  of  a  run- 
ning stream,  which  I  think  it  ought 
to  be  if  it  would  form  and  feed  other 
minds  ;  for  it  is  ill  drinking  out  of 
a  pond,  whose  stock  of  water  is 

merely  the  remains  of  the  long  past  rains  of  the  winter  and  spring,  evaporating 
and  diminishing  with  every  successive  day  of  drought.     .     .     . 

THOMAS  ARNOLD. 


12 


MY     GARDEN. 


MY     GARDEN. 


SQUASHES.  —  They  appeared 
above  ground  large-lobed  and  vig- 
orous. Large  and  vigorous  ap- 
peared the  bugs  all  gleaming  in 
green  and  gold,  like  the  wolf  on 
the  fold,  and  stopped  up  all  the 
stomata  and  ate  up  all  the  par- 
enchyma, till  my  squash-leaves 
looked  as  if  they  had  grown  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  illustrating 
netveined  organizations.  In  con- 
sternation I  sought  again  my 
neighbor  the  Englishman.  He 
answered  me  he  had  'em  on  his, 
too,  lots  of  'em.  This  reconciled 
me  to  mine.  Bugs  are  not  in- 
herently desirable,  but  a  universal 
bug  does  not  indicate  special  want 
of  skill  in  any  one.  So  I  was 
comforted.  But  the  Englishman 
said  they  must  be  killed.  He  had 
killed  his.  Then  I  said  I  would 
kill  mine,  too.  How  should  it  be 
done  ?  Oh,  put  a  shingle  near 
the  vine  at  night,  and  they  would 
come  upon  it  to  keep  dry,  and  go 
out  early  in  the  morning  and  kill 
'em.  But  how  to  kill  them  ? 
Why,  take  'em  right  between  your  thumb  and  finger  and  crush  'em  ! 

As  soon  as  I  could  recover  breath  I  informed  him  confidentially  that,  if  the 
world  were  one  great  squash,  I  wouldn't  undertake  to  save  it  in  that  way.  He  smiled 
a  little,  but  I  think  he  was  not  overmuch  pleased.  I  asked  him  why  I  couldn't  take 
a  bucket  of  water  and  dip  shingle  in  it  and  drown  them.  He  said,  well,  I  could  try 
it.  I  did  try  it,  first  wrapping  my  hand  in  a  cloth  to  prevent  contact  with  any  stray 
bug.  To  my  amazement,  the  moment  they  touched  the  water  they  all  spread  un- 
seen wings  and  flew  away,  safe  and  sound.  I  should  not  have  been  much  more 
surprised  to  see  Halicarnassus  soaring  over  the  ridge-pole.  I  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  that  they  could  fly.  Of  course  I  gave  up  the  design  of  drowning  them.  I 
called  a  council  of  war.  One  said  I  must  put  a  newspaper  over  them  and  fasten  it 
down  at  the  edges  ;  then  they  couldn't  get  in.  I  timidly  suggested  that  the  squashes 


INTO  MY  GARDEN. 


ON    AFFAIRS     IN    AMERICA.  13 

couldn't  get  out.  Yes,  they  could,  he  said  —  they'd  grow  right  through  the  paper. 
Another  said  I  must  surround  them  with  round  boxes  with  the  bottoms  broken 
out  ;  for,  though  they  could  fly,  they  couldn't  steer,  and  when  they  flew  up  they 
just  dropped  down  anywhere,  and  as  there  was  on  the  whole  a  good  deal  more  land 
on  the  outside  of  the  boxes  than  on  the  inside,  the  chances  were  in  favor  of  their 
dropping  on  the  outside.  Another  said  that  ashes  must  be  sprinkled  on  them.  A 
fourth  said  lime  was  an  infallible  remedy.  I  began  with  the  paper,  which  I  secured 
with  no  little  difficulty  ;  for  the  wind —  the  same  wind,  strange  to  say  —  kept  blow- 
ing the  dirt  at  me,  and  the  paper  away  from  me  ;  but  I  consoled  myself  by  remem- 
bering the  numberless  rows  of  squash  pies  that  should  crown  my  labors,  and  May 
took  heart  from  Thanksgiving.  The  next  day  I  peeped  under  the  paper,  and  the 
bugs  were  a  solid  phalanx.  I  reported  at  headquarters,  and  they  asked  me  if  I 
killed  the  bugs  before  I  put  the  paper  down.  I  said  no,  I  supposed  it  would  stifle 
them — in  fact,  I  did  not  think  anything  about  it,  but  if  I  had  thought  anything, 
that  was  what  I  thought.  I  was  not  pleased  to  find  I  had  been  cultivating  the  bugs 
and  furnishing  them  with  free  lodgings.  I  went  home,  and  tried  all  the  remedies 
in  succession.  I  could  hardly  decide  which  agreed  best  with  the  structure  and  habits 
of  the  bugs,  but  they  throve  on  all.  Then  I  tried  them  all  at  once  and  all  o'er  with 
a  mighty  uproar.  Presently  the  bugs  went  away.  I  am  not  sure  that  they  would 
not  have  gone  just  as  soon  if  I  had  let  them  alone.  After  they  were  gone,  the  vines 
scrambled  out  and  put  forth  some  beautiful  deep-golden  blossoms.  When  they 
fell  off,  that  was  the  end  of  them.  Not  a  squash  —  not  one  —  not  a  single  squash, 
not  even  a  pumpkin.  They  were  all  false  blossoms.  .  .  . 

MARY  AHIGAIL  DODGE  (Gail  Hamilton}. 


ON     AFFAIRS     IN     AMERICA. 

MY  LORDS,  this  ruinous  and  ignominious  situation,  where  we  cannot  act  with 
success,  nor  suffer  with  honor,  calls  upon  us  to  remonstrate  in  the  strongest  and 
loudest  language  of  truth;  to  rescue  the  ear  of  majesty  from  the  delusions  which  sur- 
round it.  The  desperate  state  of  our  arms  abroad  is  in  part  known.  No  man 
thinks  more  highly  of  them  than  I  do.  I  love  and  honor  the  English  troops.  I 
know  their  virtues  and  their  valor.  I  know  they  can  achieve  anything  except 
impossibilities  ;  and  I  know  that  the  conquest  of  English  America  is  an 
impossibility. 

You  cannot,  I  venture  to  say,  you  cannot  conquer  America.  Your  armies  in  the 
last  war  effected  everything  that  could  be  effected  ;  and  what  was  it  ?  It  cost  a 
numerous  army,  under  the  command  of  a  most  able  general  (Lord  Amherst),  now 
a  noble  Lord  in  this  House,  a  long  and  laborious  campaign,  to  expel  five  thousand 
Frenchmen  from  French  America.  My  Lords,  you  cannot  conquer  America.  What 
is  your  present  situation  there  ?  We  do  not  know  the  worst  ;  but  we  know  that 


i4  A     COUNTRY    PARISH. 

in  three  campaigns  we  have  done  nothing  and  suffered  much.  Besides  the  suffer- 
ings, perhaps  total  loss  of  the  Northern  force,  the  best  appointed  army  that  ever 
took  the  field,  commanded  by  Sir  William  Howe,  has  retired  from  the  American 
lines.  He  was  obliged  to  relinquish  his  attempt,  and  with  great  delay  and  danger, 
to  adopt  a  new  and  distant  plan  of  operations.  We  shall  soon  know,  and  in  any 
event  have  reason  to  lament,  what  may  have  happened  since.  As  to  conquest, 
therefore,  my  Lords,  I  repeat,  it  is  impossible.  You  may  swell  every  expense  and 
every  effort  still  more  extravagantly  ;  pile  and  accumulate  every  assistance  you  can 
buy  or  borrow ;  traffic  and  barter  with  every  little  pitiful  German  prince  that  sells 
and  sends  his  subjects  to  the  shambles  of  a  foreign  prince  ;  your  efforts  are  for- 
ever vain  and  impotent,  doubly  so  from  this  mercenary  aid  on  which  you  rely  ;  for 
it  irritates,  to  an  incurable  resentment,  the  minds  of  your  enemies,  to  overrun  them 
with  the  mercenary  sons  of  rapine  and  plunder,  devoting  them  and  their  possessions 
to  the  rapacity  of  hireling  cruelty  !  If  I  were  an  American,  as  I  am  an  English- 
man, while  a  foreign  troop  was  landed  in  my  country,  I  never  would  lay  down  my 
arms  —  never  —  never  —  never. 

LORD  CHATHAM. 


A     COUNTRY     PARISH. 

EVERSLEY,    1842. 

PETER  !  —  Whether  in  the  glar- 
ing saloons  of  Alrnack's,  or  making 
love  in  the  equestrian  stateliness  of 
the  park,  or  the  luxurious  recum- 
bency of  the  ottoman,  whether 
breakfasting  at  one,  or  going  to 
bed  at  three,  thou  art  still  Peter, 
the  beloved  of  my  youth,  the  staff 
of  my  academic  days,  the  regret  of 
my  parochial  retirement !  —  Peter  ! 
I  am  alone !  Around  me  are  the 
everlasting  hills,  and  the  everlasting 
bores  of  the  country  !  My  parish  is 
peculiar  for  nothing  but  want  of 
houses  and  abundance  of  peat  bogs  ; 
my  parishioners  remarkable  only  for 
aversion  to  education,  and  a  predilec- 
tion for  fat  bacon.  I  am  wasting  my 
sweetness  on  the  desert  air  —  I  say 
my  sweetness,  for  I  have  given  up  smoking,  and  smell  no  more.  O,  Peter,  Peter, 
come  down  and  see  me  !  O,  that  I  could  behold  your  head  towering  above  the  fir- 


CHARLES    KINGSLEY. 


LIMITATIONS     OF    FREE     SPEECH.  15 

trees  that  surround  my  lonely  dwelling.  Take  pity  on  me  !  I  am  like  a  kitten  in  the 
washhouse  copper  with  the  lid  on  !  And,  Peter,  prevail  on  some  of  your  friends 
here  to  give  me  a  day's,  trout-fish- 
ing, for  my  hand  is  getting  out  of 
practice.  But,  Peter,  I  am,  con- 
sidering the  oscillations  and  perplex 
circumgurgitations  of  this  piece- 
meal world,  an  improved  man.  I 
am  much  more  happy,  much  more 
comfortable,  reading,  thinking,  and 
doing  my  duty  —  much  more  than 
ever  I  did  before  in  my  life.  There- 
fore I  am  not  discontented  with 
my  situation,  or  regretful  that  I 
buried  my  first-class  in  a  country 
curacy,  like  the  girl  who  shut  her- 
self up  in  a  band-box  on  her  wed- 
ding night  (vide  Rogers'  "  Italy"). 
And  my  lamentations  are  not  gen- 
eral (for  I  do  not  want  an  inundation 
of  the  froth  and  tide-wash  of  Baby- 
lon the  Great),  but  particular,  being  solely  excited  by  want  of  thee,  O  Peter, 
who  art  very  pleasant  to  me,  and  wouldst  be  more  so  if  thou  wouldst  come  and  eat 
my  mutton,  and  drink  my  wine,  and  admire  my  sermons,  some  Sunday  at  Eversley. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


THE  KECTOKV  AT  KVERSLEV. 


LIMITATIONS  OF  FREE  SPEECH. 


GENTLEMEN,  I  cannot  conclude  without  expressing  th<*  deepest  regret  at  all 
attacks  upon  the  Christian  religion  by  authors  who  profess  to  promote  the  civil 
liberties  of  the  world.  For  under  what  other  auspices  than  Christianity  have  the 
lost  and  subverted  liberties  of  mankind  in  former  ages  been  reasserted  ?  By  what 
zeal,  but  the  warm  zeal  of  devout  Christians,  have  English  liberties  been  redeemed 
and  consecrated  ?  Under  what  other  sanctions,  even  in  our  own  days,  have  liberty 
and  happiness  been  spreading  to  the  uttermost  corners  of  the  earth  ?  What  work  of 
civilization,  what  Commonwealth  of  greatness,  has  this  bald  religion  of  nature  ever 
established  ?  We  see,  on  the  contrary,  the  nations  that  have  no  other  light  than 
that  of  nature  to  direct  them,  sunk  in  barbarism,  or  slaves  to  arbitrary  government ; 
whilst  under  the  Christian  dispensation,  the  great  career  of  the  world  has  been 
slowly  but  clearly  advancing,  lighter  at  every  step  from  the  encouraging  prophecies 


i6 


DEACON    MARBLE'S     TROUT. 


of  the  gospel,  and  leading,  I  trust,  in  the  end,  to  universal  and  eternal  happiness. 
Each  generation  of  mankind  can  see  but  a  few  revolving  links  of  this  mighty  and 
mysterious  chain  ;  but  by  doing  our  several  duties  in  our  allotted  stations,  we  are 
sure  that  we  are  fulfilling  the  purposes  of  our  existence.  You,  I  trust,  will  fulfill 
yours  this  day. 

LORD  ERSKINE. 


DEACON     MARBLE'S     TROUT. 


HE  was  a  curious  trout.  I  believe  he  knew  Sunday  just  as  well  as  Deacon 
Marble  did.  At  any  rate,  the  deacon  thought  the  trout  meant  to  aggravate  him. 
The  deacon,  you  know,  is  a  little  waggish.  He  often  tells  about  that  trout.  Says 

he,  "One  Sunday  morning,  just 
as  I  got  along  by  the  willows,  I 
heard  an  awful  splash,  and  not  ten 
feet  from  shore  I  saw  the  trout, 
as  long  as  my  arm,  just  curving 
over  like  a  bow,  and  going  down 
with  something  for  breakfast. 
'  Gracious  ' !  says  I,  and  I  almost 
jumped  out  of  the  wagon.  But 
my  wife  Polly,  says  she,  '  What 
on  airth  are  you  thinkin'  of,  Dea- 
con ?  It's  Sabbath  day,  and  you're 
goin'  to  meetin'  !  It's  a  pretty 
business  for  a  deacon  ! '  That 
sort  o'  cooled  me  off.  But  I  do 
say,  that,  for  about  a  minute,  I 
wished  I  wasn't  a  deacon.  But 
'twouldn't  made  any  difference, 
for  I  came  down  next  day  to  mill 
on  purpose,  and  I  came  down  once 
or  twice  more,  and  nothin'  was  to 
be  seen,  tho'  I  tried  him  with  the 
most  temptin'  things.  Wai,  next 
Sunday  I  came  along  ag'in,  and, 
to  save  my  life,  I  couldn't  keep 
off  worldlyand  wanderin'  thoughts. 
I  tried  to  be  sayin'  my  catechism, 
but  I  couldn't  keep  my  eyes  off  the  pond  as  we  came  up  to  the  willows.  I'd  got 
along  in  the  catechism,  as  smooth  as  the  road,  to  the  Fourth  Commandment,  and 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  TROUT. 


CHRISTIAN    IN    DOUBTING     CASTLE.  17 

was  sayin'  it  out  loud  for  Polly,  and  jist  as  I  was  sayin'  :  'What  is  required  in  the 
Fourth  Commandment  ? '  I  heard  a  splash,  and  there  was  the  trout,  and,  afore  I  could 
think,  I  said  :  'Gracious,  Polly,  I  must  have  that  trout.'  She  almost  riz  right  up, 
•  I  knew  you  wa'n't  sayin'  your  catechism  hearty.  Is  this  the  way  you  answer 
the  question  about  keepin'  the  Lord's  day  ?  I'm  ashamed,  Deacon  Marble,'  says 
she.  '  You'd  better  change  your  road,  and  go  to  meetin'  on  the  road  over  the  hill. 
If  I  was  a  deacon,  I  wouldn't  let  a  fish's  tail  whisk  the  whole  catechism  out  of  my 
head ; '  and  I  had  to  go  to  meetin'  on  the  hill  road  all  the  rest  of  the  summer." 

HENRY  WARD  BEECHER. 


CHRISTIAN     IN     DOUBTING     CASTLE. 


Now  there  was,  not  far  from  the 
place  where  they  lay,  a  castle,  called 
Doubting  Castle,  the  owner  whereof 
was  Giant  Despair ;  and  it  was  in 
his  grounds  they  now  were  sleeping. 
Wherefore  he,  getting  up  in  the 
morning  early,  and  walking  up  and 
down  in  his  fields,  caught  Christian 
and  Hopeful  asleep  in  his  grounds. 
Then,  with  a  grim  and  surly  voice, 
he  bid  them  awake ;  and  asked  them 
whence  they  were  and  what  they 
did  on  his  grounds.  They  told  him 
they  were  pilgrims,  and  that  they 
had  lost  their  way.  Then  said  the 
giant,  "  You  have  this  night  tres- 
passed on  me,  by  trampling  in  and 
lying  on  my  grounds,  and  therefore 
you  must  go  along  with  me."  So 
they  were  forced  to  go,  because  he 
was  stronger  than  they.  They  also 
had  but  little  to  say,  for  they  knew 
themselves  in  a  fault.  The  giant,  therefore,  drove  them  before  him,  and  put 
them  into  his  castle,  into  a  very  dark  dungeon,  nasty  and  stinking  to  the  spirits 
of  these  two  men.  Here,  then,  they  lay  from  Wednesday  morning  till  Saturday 
night,  without  one  bit  of  bread,  or  drop  of  drink,  or  light,  or  any  to  ask  how  they 
did.  They  were  therefore  here  in  evil  case,  and  were  far  from  friends  and  ac- 
quaintance. Now  in  this  place  Christian  had  double  sorrow,  because  it  was  through 
his  unadvised  counsel  that  they  were  brought  into  this  distress. 


JOHN    BUNYAN. 


i8  CHRISTIAN    IN    DOUBTING     CASTLE. 

Now  Giant  Despair  had  a  wife,  and  her  name  was  Diffidence.  So  when  he  was 
gone  to  bed,  he  told  his  wife  what  he  had  done  ;  to  wit,  that  he  had  taken  a  couple 
of  prisoners  and  cast  them  into  his  dungeon,  for  trespassing  on  his  grounds.  Then 
he  asked  her  also  what  he  had  best  to  do  further  to  them.  So  she  asked  him  what 
they  were,  whence  they  came,  and  whither  they  were  bound  ;  and  he  told  her. 
Then  she  counselled  him  that  when  he  arose  in  the  morning  he  should  beat  them 
without  any  mercy.  So,  when  he  arose,  he  getteth  him  a  grievous  crab-tree  cud- 
gel, and  goes  down  into  the  dungeon  to  them,  and  there  first  falls  to  rating  of  them 
as  if  they  were  dogs,  although  they  gave  him  never  a  word  of  distaste ;  then  he 
falls  upon  them,  and  beats  them  fearfully,  in  such  sort  they  were  not  able  to  help 
themselves,  or  to  turn  them  upon  the  floor.  This  done,  he  withdraws  and  leaves 
them,  there  to  condole  their  misery  and  to  mourn  under  their  distress.  So  all  that 
day  they  spent  the  time  in  nothing  but  sighs  and  bitter  lamentations.  The  next 
night  she,  talking  with  her  husband  about  them  further,  and  understanding  they 
were  yet  alive,  did  advise  him  to  counsel  them  to  make  away  themselves.  So, 
when  morning  was  come,  he  goes  to  them  in  a  surly  manner,  as  before,  and  perceiv- 
ing them  to  be  very  sore  with  the  stripes  that  he  had  given  them  the  day  before, 
he  told  them,  that  since  they  were  never  like  to  come  out  of  that  place,  their  only 
way  would  be  forthwith  to  make  an  end  of  themselves,  either  with  knife,  halter  or 
poison.  "  For  why,"  said  he,  "  should  you  choose  life,  seeing  it  is  attended  with 
so  much  bitterness  ?"  But  they  desired  him  to  let  them  go.  With  that  he  looked 
ugly  upon  them,  and  rushing  to  them,  had  doubtless  made  an  end  of  them  himself, 
but  that  he  fell  into  one  of  his  fits  (for  he  sometimes,  in  sunshiny  weather,  fell  into 
fits),  and  lost  for  a  time  the  use  of  his  hand  ;  wherefore  he  withdrew,  and  left  them 
as  before,  to  consider  what  to  do.  Then  did  the  prisoners  consult  between  them- 
selves, whether  it  was  best  to  take  his  counsel  or  no  ;  and  thus  they  began  to 
discourse  : 

"  Brother,"  said  Christian,  "  what  shall  we  do  ?  The  life  that  we  now  live  is 
miserable.  For  my  part,  I  know  not  whether  is  best,  to  live  thus,  or  to  die  out  of 
hand.  '  My  soul  chooseth  strangling  rather  than  life,'  and  the  grave  is  more  easy 
for  me  than  this  dungeon.  Shall  we  be  ruled  by  the  giant  ?  " 

HOPE.  Indeed,  our  present  condition  is  dreadful,  and  death  would  be  far  more 
welcome  to  me  than  thus  for  ever  to  abide  ;  but  yet,  let  us  consider,  the  Lord  of 
the  country  to  which  we  are  going  hath  said,  "  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder  :  "  no  not 
to  another  man's  person  ;  much  more  then,  are  we  forbidden  to  take  his  counsel  to 
kill  ourselves.  Besides,  he  that  kills  another  can  but  commit  murder  upon  his 
body  ;  but  for  one  to  kill  himself  is  to  kill  body  and  soul  at  once.  And  moreover, 
my  brother,  thou  talkest  of  ease  in  the  grave  ;  but  hast  thou  forgotten  the  hell 
whither  for  certain  the  murderers  go  ?  For  "no  murderer  hath  eternal  life."  And 
let  us  consider  again,  that  all  the  law  is  not  in  the  hand  of  Giant  Despair.  Others, 
so  far  as  I  can  understand,  have  been  taken  by  him,  as  well  as  we ;  and  yet  have 
escaped  out  of  his  hand.  Who  knows  but  that  God  that  made  the  world  may 
cause  that  Giant  Despair  may  die  ?  or  that  at  some  time  or  other  he  may  forget  to 
lock  us  in  ?  or  that  he  may  in  a  short  time  have  another  of  his  fits  before  us,  and 


CHRISTIAN    IN    DOUBTING     CASTLE. 


may  lose  the  use  of  his  limbs  ?  —  and  if  ever  that  should  come  to  pass  again,  for 
my  part  I  am  resolved  to  pluck  up  the  heart  of  a  man,  and  to  try  my  utmost  to  get 
from  under  his  hand.  I  was  a  fool  that  I  did  not  try  to  do  it  before  ;  but,  however, 
my  brother,  let's  be  patient,  and  endure  a  while  ;  the  time  may  come  that  may 
give  us  a  happy  release  ;  but  let  us  not  be  our  own  murderers. 

With  these  words,  Hopeful  at  present  did  moderate  the  mind  of  his  brother  ; 
so  they  continued  together  (in  the  dark)  that  day,  in  their  sad  and  doleful 
condition. 

Well,  towards  evening,  the  giant  goes  down  into  the  dungeon  again,  to  see  if  his 
prisoners  had  taken  his  counsel  ;  but  when  he  came  there  he  found  them  alive; 
and,  truly,  alive  was  all,  for  now,  what  for  want  of  bread  and  water,  and  by  reason 
of  the  wounds  they  received  when  he  beat  them,  they  could  do  little  but  breathe. 
But,  I  say,  he  found  them  alive  ;  at  which  he  fell  into  a  grievous  rage,  and  told 
them  that,  seeing  they  had  disobeyed  his  counsel,  it  should  be  worse  with  them  than 
if  they  had  never  been  born. 

At  this  they  trembled  greatly,  and  I  think  that  Christian  fell  into  a  swoon ; 
but,  coming  a  little  to  himself  again,  they  renewed  their  discourse  about  the  giant's 
counsel  ;  and 

whether  yet  they     WiOSO^Sm^^smSSI^^^^L--.  M 

had  best  to  take 
it  or  no.  Now 
Christian  again 
seemed  to  be  for 
doingit,  but  Hope- 
ful made  his  sec- 
ond reply  as  fol- 
loweth  : 

"My  brother," 
said  he,  "remem- 
berest  thou  not 
how  valiant  thou 

hast  been  heretofore?  Apollyon  could  not  crush  thee,  nor  could  all  that  thou  didst  hear, 
or  see,  or  feel,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  What  hardship,  terror,  and  amaze- 
ment hast  thou  already  gone  through  !  and  art  thou  now  nothing  but  fears  ?  Thou 
seest  that  I  am  in  the  dungeon  with  thee,  a  far  weaker  man  by  nature  than  thou 
art :  also,  this  giant  has  wounded  me  as  well  as  thee,  and  hath  also  cut  off  the  bread 
and  water  from  my  mouth  ;  and  with  thee  I  mourn  without  the  light.  But  let's 
exercise  a  little  more  patience  :  remember  how  thou  playedest  the  man  at  Vanity 
Fair,  and  wast  neither  afraid  of  the  chain,  nor  cage,  nor  yet  of  bloody  death. 
Wherefore,  let  us  (at  least  to  avoid  the  shame,  that  becomes  not  a  Christian  to  be 
found  in)  bear  up  with  patience  as  well  as  we  can." 

Now  night  being  come  again,  and  the  giant  and  his  wife  being  in  bed,  she  asked 
htm  concerning  the  prisoners,  and  if  they  had  taken  his  counsel.  To  which  he 
replied,  "They  are  sturdy  rogues  ;  they  choose  rather  to  bear  all  hardship,  than  to 


BEDFORD   JAIL,    WH1 


THE  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS  WAS  WRITTEN. 


20  CHRISTIAN    IN    DOUBTING     CASTLE. 

make  away  themselves."  Then  said  she,  "Take  them  into  the  castle-yard  to-mor- 
row, and  show  them  the  bones  and  skulls  of  those  that  thou  hast  already  dispatched, 
and  make  them  believe,  ere  a  week  comes  to  an  end,  thou  also  wilt  tear  them  in 
pieces  as  thou  hast  done  their  fellows  before  them." 

So  when  the  morning  was  come,  the  giant  goes  to  them  again,  and  takes  them  into 
the  castle-yard,  and  shows  them  as  his  wife  had  bidden  him.  "  These,"  said  he, 
"  were  pilgrims  as  you  are,  once,  and  they  trespassed  in  my  grounds,  as  you  have 
clone  ;  and  when  I  thought  fit,  I  tore  them  in  pieces  ;  and  so  within  ten  days  I  will 
do  you.  Go,  get  you  down  to  your  den  again  ;  "  and  with  that  he  beat  them  all 
the  way  thither.  They  lay,  therefore,  all  day  on  Saturday  in  a  lamentable  case,  as 
before.  Now  when  night  was  come,  and  when  Mrs.  Diffidence  and  her  husband, 
the  giant,  were  got  to  bed,  they  began  to  renew  their  discourse  of  their  prisoners  ; 
and,  withal,  the  old  giant  wondered  that  he  could  neither  by  his  blows  nor  his  coun- 
sel, bring  them  to  an  end.  And  with  that  his  wife  replied,  "I  fear,"  said  she, 
"  that  they  live  in  hope  that  some  will  come  to  relieve  them,  or  that  they  have 
picklocks  about  them,  by  the  means  of  which  they  hope  to  escape."  "  And  sayest 
thou  so,  my  dear  ?  "  said  the  giant  ;  "  I  will  therefore  search  them  in  the  morning." 

Well,  on  Saturday,  about  midnight,  they  began  to  pray,  and  continued  in  prayer 
till  almost  break  of  day.  , 

Now,  a  little  before  it  was  day,  good  Christian,  as  one  half  amazed,  brake  out  in 
this  passionate  speech  :  "What  a  fool,"  quoth  he,  "am  I,  thus  to  lie  in  a  stinking 
dungeon,  when  I  may  as  well  walk  at  liberty  !  I  have  a  key  in  my  bosom,  called 
Promise,  that  will,  1  am  persuaded,  open  any  lock  in  Doubting  Castle."  Then 
said  Hopeful,  "  That  is  good  news  ;  good  brother,  pluck  it  out  of  thy  bosom,  and 
try." 

Then  Christian  pulled  it  out  of  his  bosom,  and  began  to  try  at  the  dungeon 
door,  whose  bolt  (as  he  turned  the  key)  gave  back,  and  the  door  flew  open  with 
ease,  and  Christian  and  Hopeful  both  came  out.  Then  he  went  to  the  outward 
door  that  leads  into  the  castle-yard,  and,  with  his  key,  opened  that  door  also.  After, 
he  went  to  the  iron  gate,  for  that  must  be  opened  too  ;  but  that  lock  went 
damnable  hard,  yet  the  key  did  open  it.  Then  they  thrust  open  the  gate  to  make 
their  escape  with  speed,  but  that  gate,  as  it  opened,  made  such  a  creaking  that  it 
waked  Giant  Despair,  who,  hastily  rising  to  pursue  his  prisoners,  felt  his  limbs  to 
fail,  for  his  fits  took  him  again,  so  that  he  could  by  no  means  go  after  them. 
Then  they  went  on,  and  came  to  the  King's  highway,  and  so  were  safe,  because 
they  were  out  of  his  jurisdiction. 

Now,  when  they  were  gone  over  the  stile,  they  began  to  contrive  with  them- 
selves what  they  should  do  at  that  stile,  to  prevent  those  that  should  come  after 
from  falling  into  the  hands  of  Giant  Despair.  So  they  consented  to  erect  there  a 
pillar,  and  to  engrave  upon  the  side  thereof  this  sentence  :  "  Over  this  stile  is  the 
way  to  Doubting  Castle,  which  is  kept  by  Giant  Despair,  who  despiseth  the  King 
of  the  Celestial  Country,  and  seeks  to  destroy  his  holy  pilgrims."  Many  therefore 
that  followed  after  read  what  was  written,  and  escaped  the  danger. 

JOHN  BUNYAN. 


THE    PLEASURES     OF    PRIVATE    LIFE. 


21 


THE    STUART    PORTRAIT    OF    WASHINGTON. 


THE     PLEASURES     OF     PRIVATE     LIFE. 

UNDER  the  shadow  of  my  own  vine  and  my  own  fig-tree,  free  from  the  bustle  of 
a  camp,  and  the  busy  scenes  of  public  life,  I  am  solacing  myself  with  those  tranquil 
enjoyments,  of  which  the  Soldier,  who  is  ever  in  pursuit  of  fame,  the  Statesman, 
whose  watchful  days  and  sleepless  nights  are  spent  in  devising  schemes  to  promote 
the  welfare  of  his  own,  perhaps  the  ruin  of  other  countries,  as  if  the  globe  was  in- 
sufficient for  us  all — and  the  Courtier,  who  is  always  watching  the  countenance  of 
his  Prince,  in  hopes  of  catching  a  gracious  smile  —  can  have  very  little  conception. 
I  have  not  only  retired  from  all  public  employments,  but  I  am  retiring  within  my- 
self, and  shall  be  able  to  view  the  solitary  walk,  and  tread  the  paths  of  private  life, 
with  a  heartfelt  satisfaction.  Envious  of  none,  I  am  determined  to  be  pleased  with 
all ;  and,  this  being  the  order  of  my  march,  I  will  move  gently  down  the  stream  of 
life  until  I  sleep  with  my  fathers. 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 


22 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    AN    OLD     FRIEND. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  OLD  FRIEND. 


COLEBROOK  Row,  Islington, 

January  20,  1826. 
I  CALLED  upon  you  this  morn- 
ing, and  found  that  you  were  gone 
to  visit  a  dying  friend.  I  had 
been  upon  a  like  errand.  Poor 
Norris  ...  in  him  I  have  a 
loss  the  world  cannot  make  up. 
He  was  my  friend  and  my  father's 
friend  all  the  life  I  can  remem- 
ber. I  seem  to  have  made  fool- 
ish friends  ever  since.  Those 
are  friendships  which  outlive  a 
second  generation.  Old  as  I  am 
waxing,  in  his  eyes  I  was  still  the 
child  he  first  knew  me.  To  the 
last  -he  called  me  Charley.  I 
have  none  to  call  me  Charley  now. 
He  was  the  last  link  that  bound 
me  to  the  Temple.  You  are  but 
of  yesterday.  In  him  seem  to 
have  died  the  old  plainness  of 
manners  and  singleness  of  heart. 
Letters  he  knew  nothing  of,  nor 
did  his  reading  extend  beyond 
the  pages  of  the  Gentleman  s  Magazine.  Yet  there  was  a  pride  of  literature  about 
him  from  being  amongst  books  (he  was  librarian),  and  from  some  scraps  of  doubtful 
Latin  which  he  had  picked  up  in  his  office  of  entering  students,  that  gave  him  very  di- 
verting airs  of  pedantry.  Can  I  forget  the  erudite  look  with  which  when  he  had  been 
in  vain  trying  to  make  out  a  black-letter  text  of  Chaucer  in  the  Temple  Library,  he 
laid  it  down  and  told  me  that —  "in  these  old  books,  Charley,  there  is  sometimes  a 
deal  of  very  indifferent  spelling,"  —  and  seemed  to  console  himself  in  the  reflection  ! 
His  jokes,  for  he  had  his  jokes,  are  now  ended  ;  but  they  were  old  trusty  perennials, 
staples  that  pleased  after  decies  repetita,  and  were  always  as  good  as  new.  One  song- 
he  had,  which  was  reserved  for  the  night  of  Christmas-day,  which  we  always  spent  in 
the  Temple.  It  was  an  old  thing,  and  spoke  of  the  flat  bottoms  of  our  foes  and  the 
possibility  of  their  coming  over  in  darkness,  and  alluded  to  threats  of  an  invasion 
many  years  blown  over ;  and  when  he  came  to  the  part 

"  We'll  still  make  'em  run,  and  we'll  still  make  'em  sweat, 
In  spite  of  the  devil  and  Brussels  Gazette" 


CHARLES   LAMB. 


UPON    RICHES.  23 

his  eyes  would  sparkle  as  with  the  freshness  of  an  impending  event.  And  what  is 
the  Brussels  Gazette  now?  I  cry  while  I  enumerate  these  trifles.  "  How  shall 
we  tell  them  in  a  stranger's  ear  ?  " 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


UPON     RICHES. 


IN  getting  of  your  riches,  and  in 
using  of  'em,  ye  shulden  alway  have 
three  things  in  your  heart,  that  is  to 
say,  our  Lord  God,  conscience,  and 
good  name.  First,  ye  shulden  have 
God  in  your  heart,  and  for  no  riches 
ye  shulden  do  nothing  which  may  in 
any  manner  displease  God  that  is 
your  creator  and  maker  ;  for,  after 
the  word  of  Solomon,  it  is  better  to 
have  a  little  good  with  the  love  of 
God,  than  to  have  muckle  good  and 
lese  the  love  of  his  Lord  God  ;  and 
the  prophet  saith,  that  better  it  is 
to  ben  a  good  man  and  have  little 
good  and  treasure,  than  to  be  holden 
a  shrew  and  have  great  riches.  And 
yet  I  say  furthermore,  that  ye  shul- 
den always  do  your  business  to  get 
your  riches,  so  that  ye  get  'em  with 
a  good  conscience.  And  the  apostle 
saith,  that  there  nis  thing  in  this 
world,  of  which  we  shulden  have  so 
great  joy,  as  when  our  conscience 
beareth  us  good  witness  ;  and  the 
wise  man  saith,  The  substance  of  a 
man  is  full  good  when  sin  is  not  in  a  man's  conscience. 

Afterward,  in  getting  of  your  riches  and  in  using  of  'em,  ye  must  have  great 
business  and  great  diligence  that  your  good  name  be  alway  kept  and  conserved  ; 
for  Solomon  saith,  that  better  it  is  and  more  it  availeth  a  man  to  have  a  good  name 
than  for  to  have  great  riches  ;  and  therefore  he  saith  in  another  place,  Do  great 
diligence  (saith  he)  in  keeping  of  thy  friends  and  of  thy  good  name,  for  it  shall 
longer  abide  with  thee  than  any  treasure,  be  it  never  so  precious  ;  and  certainly  he 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER. 


24  SAM    MENDS     THE     CLOCK. 

should  not  be  called  a  gentleman  that,  after  God  and  good  conscience  all  things 
left,  ne  doth  his  diligence  and  business  to  keepen  his  good  name ;  and  Cassiodore 
saith,  that  it  is  a  sign  of  a  gentle  heart,  when  a  man  loveth  and  desireth  to  have  a 
good  name. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 


SAM     MENDS     THE    CLOCK. 


"  WHY,  ye  see,  Miss  Lois,"  he 
would  say,  "  clocks  can't  be  druv ; 
that's  jest  what  they  can't  Some 
things  can  be  druv,  and  then  ag'in 
some  things  can't,  and  clocks  is  that 
kind.  They's  jest  got  to  be  humor- 
ed. Now  this  'ere's  a  'mazin'  good 
clock  ;  give  me  my  time  on  it,  and 
I'll  have  it  so  'twill  keep  straight  on 
to  the  Millennium." 

"  Millennium  !  "  says  Aunt  Lois, 
with  a  snort  of  infinite  contempt. 
"  Yes,  the  Millennium,"  says  Sam, 
letting  fall  his  work  in  a  contempla- 
tive manner.  "  That  'ere's  an  inter- 
estin'  topic.  Now  Parson  Lothrop, 
he  don't  think  the  Millennium  will 
last  a  thousand  years.  What's  your 
'pinion  on  that  p'int,  Miss  Lois?"  "My  opinion  is,"  said  Aunt  Lois,  in  her  most 
nipping  tones,  "that  if  folks  don't  mind  their  own  business,  and  do  with  their 
might  what  their  hand  finds  to  do,  the  Millennium  won't  come  at  all." 

"  Wai,  you  see,  Miss  Lois,  it's  just  here  —  one  day  is  with  the  Lord  as  a  thousand 
years,  and  a  thousand  years  as  one  day." 

"  I  should  think  you  thought  a  day  was  a  thousand "^years,  the  way  you  work,  ' 
said  Aunt  Lois. 

"  Wai,"  says  Sam,  sitting  down  with  his  back  to  his  desperate  litter  of  wheels, 
weights  and  pendulums,  and  meditatively  caressing  his  knee  as  he  watched  the 
sailing  clouds  in  abstract  meditation,  "ye  see,  ef  a  thing's  ordained,  why,  it's  got  to 
be,  ef  you  don't  lift  a  finger.  That  'ere's  so  now,  ain't  it?" 

"  Sam  Lawson,  you  are  about  the  most  aggravating  creature  I  ever  had  to  do 
with.  Here  you've  got  our  clock  all  to  pieces,  and  have  been  keeping  up  a  per- 
fect hurrah's  nest  in  our  kitchen  for  three  days,  and  there  you  sit  maundering  and 


HARRIET    BEECHER    STOWE. 


MENDING    THE    CLOCK. 


SAM    MENDS     THE     CLOCK.  27 

talking  with  your  back  to  your  work,  fussin'  about  the  Millennium,  which  is  none 
of  your  business,  or  mine,  as  I  know  of  !  Do  either  put  that  clock  together  or  let 
it  alone  !  " 

"  Don't  you  be  a  grain  uneasy,  Miss  Lois.  Why,  I'll  have  your  clock  all  right 
in  the  end,  but  I  can't  be  druv.  Wai,  I  guess  I'll  take  another  spell  on't  to-morrow 
or  Friday." 

Poor  Aunt  Lois,  horror-stricken,  but  seeing  herself  actually  in  the  hands  of 
the  imperturbable  enemy,  now  essayed  the  task  of  conciliation.  "  Now  do,  Lawson, 
just  finish  up  this  job,  and  I'll  pay  you  down,  right  on  the  spot  ;  and  you  need  the 
money." 

"I'd  like  to  'blige  ye,  Miss  Lois;  but  ye  see  money  ain't  everything  in  this 
world.  Ef  I  work  tew  long  on  one  thing,  my  mind  kind  o'  gives  out,  ye  see  ;  and 
besides,  I've  got  some  'sponsibilities  to  'tend  to.  There's  Mrs.  Captain  Brown,  she 
made  me  promise  to  come  to-day  and  look  at  the  nose  o'  that  'ere  silver  teapot  o' 
hern  ;  it's  kind  o'  sprung  a  leak.  And  then  I  'greed  to  split  a  little  oven-wood  for 
the  Widdah  Pedee,  that  lives  up  on  the  Shelburn  road.  Must  visit  the  widdahs  in 
their  affliction,  Scriptur'  says.  And  then  there's  Hepsy  :  she's  allers  a  castin'  it 
up  at  me  that  I  don't  do  nothin'  for  her  and  the  chil'en  ;  but  then,  lordy  massy, 
Hepsy  hain't  no  sort  o'  patience.  Why,  jest  this  mornin'  I  was  tellin'  her  to  count 
up  her  marcies,  and  I  'clare  for't  if  I  didn't  think  she'd  a  throwed  the  tongs  at  me. 
That  'ere  woman's  temper  railly  makes  me  consarned.  Wai,  good  day,  Miss  Lois. 
I'll  be  along  again  to-morrow  or  Friday  or  the  first  o'  next  week."  And  away  he 
went  with  long  loose  strides  down  the  village  street,  while  the  leisurely  wail  of  an 
old  fuguing  tune  floated  back  after  him, — 

"  Thy  years  are  an 
Etarnal  day, 
Thy  years  are  an 
.Etarnal  day." 

"  An  eternal  torment,"  said  Aunt  Lois,  with  a  snap.  "  I'm  sure,  if  there's  a 
mortal  creature  on  this  earth  that  I  pity,  it's  Hepsy  Lawson.  Folks  talk  about  her 
scolding  —  that  Sam  Lawson  is  enough  to  make  the  saints  in  Heaven  fall  from 
grace.  And  you  can't  do  anything  with  him  :  it's  like  charging  bayonet  into  a 
wool-sack." 

HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


28 


THE    IRISH    BARD. 


EDMUND    SPENSER. 


THE     IRISH     BARD. 

THERE  is  amongst  the  Irish  a  certain  kind  of  people  called  Bards,  which  are  to 
them  instead  of  poets,  whose  profession  is  to  set  forth  the  praises  or  dispraises  of 
men,  in  their  poems  or  rithmes ;  the  which  are  had  in  so  high  regard  and  estimation 
amongst  them,  that  none  dare  displease  them  for  fear  to  run  into  reproach  through 
their  offense,  and  to  be  made  infamous  in  the  mouths  of  all  men.  For  their  verses 
are  taken  up  with  a  general  applause,  and  usually  sung  at  all  feasts  and  meetings  by 
certain  other  persons,  whose  proper  function  that  is,  who  also  receive  for  the  same 
great  rewards  and  reputation  amongst  them.  .  .  . 

Such  poets  as  in  their  writings  do  labor  to  better  the  manners  of  men,  and 
through  the  sweet  bait  of  their  numbers  to  steal  into  the  young  spirits  a  desire  of 
honor  and  virtue,  are  worthy  to  be  had  in  great  respect.  But  these  Irish  bards 


LONDON. 


29 


are  for  the  most  part  of  another  mind,  and  so  far  from  instructing  young  men  in 
moral  discipline,  that  they  themselves  do  more  deserve  to  be  sharply  disciplined  : 
for  they  seldom  use  to  choose  unto  themselves  the  doings  of  good  men  for  the 
arguments  of  their  poems,  but  whomsoever  they  find  to  be  most  licentious  of  life, 
most  bold  and  lawless  in  his  doings,  most  dangerous  and  desperate  in  all  parts  of 
disobedience  and  rebellious  disposition  ;  him  they  set  up  and  glorify  in  their 
rithmes,  him  they  praise  to  the  people,  and  to  young  men  make  an  example  to 
follow.  EDMUND  SPENSER. 


LONDON. 

.  .  .  I  CANNOT  say 
that  this  huge  blind 
monster  of  a  city  is  with- 
out some  sort  of  charm 
for  me.  It  leaves  one 
alone  to  go  his  own  road 
unmolested.  Deep  in 
your  soul  you  take  up 
your  protest  against  it, 
defy  it,  and  even  despise 
it,  but  need  not  divide 
yourself  from  it  for  that. 
Worthy  individuals  are 
glad  to  hear  your 
thoughts  if  it  have  any 
sincerity ;  they  do  not 
exasperate  themselves 
or  you  about  it ;  they 
have  not  even  time  for 
such  a  thing.  Nay,  in 
stupidity  itself,  on  a 
scale  of  this  magnitude, 
there  is  an  impressive- 
ness.almost  a  sublimity; 
one  thinks  how,  in  the  words  of  Schiller,  "  the  very  gods  fight  against  it  in  vain  "  ; 
how  it  lies  on  its  unfathomable  foundation  there,  inert,  yet  peptic,  nay,  eupeptic, 
and  is  a  Fact  in  the  world,  let  theory  object  as  it  will.  Brown-stout,  in  quantities 
that  would  float  a  seventy-four  goes  down  the  throats  of  men  ;  and  the  roaring 
flood  of  life  pours  on  ;  —  over  which  Philosophy  and  Theory  are  but  a  poor  shriek  of 
remonstrance,  which  oftenest  times  were  wiser,  perhaps,  to  hold  its  peace.  . 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


COMPENSA  TION. 


COMPENSATION. 


HUMAN  labor,  through  all  its  forms,  from  the  sharpening  of  a  stake  to  the  con- 
struction of  a  city  or  an  epic,  is  one  immense  illustration  of  the  perfect  compensa- 
tion of  the  universe.  The  absolute  balance  of  Give  and  Take,  the  doctrine  that 
everything  has  its  price  —  and  if  that  price  is  not  paid,  not  that  thing  but  some- 
thing else  is  obtained,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to  get  anything  without  its  price  — 
is  not  less  sublime  in  the  columns  of  a  ledger  than  in  the  budgets  of  States,  in  the 
laws  of  light  and  darkness,  in  all  the  action  and  reaction  of  nature.  I  cannot  doubt 
that  the  high  laws  which  each  man  sees  implicated  in  those  processes  with  which 
he  is  conversant  —  the  stern  ethics  which  sparkle  on  his  chisel- 
edge,  which  are  measured  out  by  his  plumb  and  foot-rule,  which 
stand  as  manifest  in  the  footing  of  the  shop-bill  as  in  the  history 
of  a  State  —  do  recommend  to  him  his  trade,  and  though  seldom 
named,  exalt  his  business  to  his  imagination. 

The  league  between  virtue  and  nature  engages  all  things  to 
assume  a  hostile  front  to  vice.     The  beautiful  laws  and  substances 
of  the   world  persecute  and  whip  the  traitor. 
He  finds  that  things  are  arranged  for  truth  and 
benefit,  but  there  is  no 
den  in  the  wide  world  to 
hide  a  rogue.     Commit 
a  crime,  and  the 
earth  is  made  of 
glass.        Commit 
a  crime,    and    it 
seems  as  if  a  coat 
of   snow  fell    on 
the  ground,  such 
as  reveals  in  the 
woods    the  track 
of  every  partridge 
and  fox  and  squir- 
rel    and    mole. 
You    cannot   recall  the 
spoken  word,  you  cannot 
wipe  out  the  foot-track, 
you  cannot  draw  up  the 
ladder,  so  as  to  leave  no 

inlet  or  clue.     Some  damning  circumstance  always  transpires.     The  laws  and  sub- 
stances of  nature  —  water,  snow,  wind,  gravitation  —  become  penalties  to  the  thief. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  law  holds  with   equal  sureness  for  all   right  action. 


EMERSON'S  HOME  IN  CONCORD,  MASS. 


C  O  MPE  NSA  TI O  N. 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 


Love,  and  you  shall  be  loved.  All  love  is  mathematically  just,  as  much  as  the  two 
sides  of  an  algebraic  equation.  The  good  man  has  absolute  good,  which  like  fire 
turns  everything  to  its  own  nature,  so  that  you  cannot  do  him  any  harm  ;  but  as 
the  royal  armies  sent  against  Napoleon,  when  he  approached,  cast  down  their  colors 
and  from  enemies  became  friends,  so  disasters  of  all  kinds,  as  sickness,  offense, 
poverty,  prove  benefactors  : 

"  Winds  blow  and  waters  roll 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  power  and  deity, 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing."     .... 


32  THE     GOOD     WIFE. 

Our  strength  grows  out  of  our  weakness.  The  indignation  which  arms  itself 
with  secret  forces  does  not  awaken  until  we  are  pricked  and  stung  and  sorely 
assailed.  A  great  man  is  always  willing  to  be  little.  Whilst  he  sits  on  the  cushion 
of  advantages,  he  goes  to  sleep.  When  he  is  pushed,  tormented,  defeated,  he  has 
a  chance  to  learn  something  ;  he  has  been  put  on  his  wits,  on  his  manhood  ;  he  has 
gained  facts  ;  learns  his  ignorance ;  is  cured  of  the  insanity  of  conceit ;  has  got 
moderation  and  real  skill.  The  wise  man  throws  himself  on  the  side  of  his  assail- 
ants. It  is  more  his  interest  than  it  is  theirs  to  find  his  weak  point.  The  wound 
cicatrizes  and  falls  off  from  him  like  a  dead  skin,  and  when  they  would  triumph,  lo  ! 
he  has  passed  on  invulnerable.  Blame  is  safer  than  praise.  I  hate  to  be  defended 
in  a  newspaper.  As  long  as  all  that  is  said  is  said  against  me,  I  feel  a  certain 
assurance  of  success.  But  as  soon  as  honeyed  words  of  praise  are  spoken  for  me, 
I  feel  as  one  that  lies  unprotected  before  his  enemies.  In  general,  every  evil  to 
which  we  do  not  succumb  is  a  benefactor.  As  the  Sandwich  Islander  believes 
that  the  strength  and  valor  of  the  enemy  he  kills  passes  into  himself,  so  we  gain 
the  strength  of  the  temptation  we  resist. 

The  same  guards  which  protect  us  from  disaster,  defect,  and  enmity,  defend  us, 
if  we  will,  from  selfishness  and  fraud.  Bolts  and  bars  are  not  the  best  of  our  insti- 
tutions, nor  is  shrewdness  in  trade  a  mark  of  wisdom.  Men  suffer  all  their  life 
long,  under  the  foolish  superstition  that  they  can  be  cheated.  But  it  is  as 
impossible  for  a  man  to  be  cheated  by  any  one  but  himself,  as  for  a  thing  to  be  and 
not  to  be  at  the  same  time.  There  is  a  third  silent  party  to  all  our  bargains.  The 
nature  and  soul  of  things  takes  on  itself  the  guarantee  of  the  fulfillment  of  every 
contract,  so  that  honest  service  cannot  come  to  loss.  If  you  serve  an  ungrateful 
master,  serve  him  the  more.  Put  God  in  your  debt.  Every  stroke  shall  be  repaid. 
The  longer  the  payment  is  withholden,  the  better  for  you  ;  for  compound  interest  on 
compound  interest  is  the  rate  and  usage  of  this  exchequer. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON, 


THE     GOOD     WIFE. 

SHE  commandeth  her  husband  in  any  equal  matter,  by  constant  obeying  him. 

She  never  crosseth  her  husband  in  the  spring-tide  of  his  anger,  but  stays  till  it 
be  ebbing-water.  Surely  men,  contrary  to  iron,  are  worst  to  be  wrought  upon  when 
they  are  hot. 

Her  clothes  are  rather  comely  than  costly,  and  she  makes  plain  cloth  to  be 
velvet  by  her  handsome  wearing  it. 

Her  husband's  secrets  she  will  not  divulge  :  especially  she  is  careful  to  conceal 
his  infirmities. 

In  her  husband's  absence  she  is  wife  and   deputy  husband,  which  makes  her 


SOLITUDE. 


33 


double  the  files  of  her  diligence.     At  his  return  he  finds  all  things  so  well,  that  he 
wonders  to  see  himself  at  home  when  he  was  abroad. 

Her  children,  though  many  in  number,  are  none  in  noise,  steering  them  with  a 
look  whither  she  listeth. 

The  heaviest  work  of  her  servants  she  maketh  light,  by  orderly  and  seasonably 
enjoining  it. 

In  her  husband's  sickness  she  feels  more  grief  than  she  shows. 

THOMAS  FULLER. 


SOLITUDE. 


THERE  can  be  no  very  black  melancholy  to  him  who  lives  in  the  midst  of  Nature, 
and  has  his  senses  still.  There  was  never  yet  such  a  storm  but  it  was  ^Eolian 
music  to  a  healthy  and  innocent  ear.  Nothing  can  rightly  compel  a  simple  and 
brave  man  to  a  vulgar  sadness.  While  I  enjoy  the  friendship  of  the  seasons  I  trust 
that  nothing  can  make  life  a  burden  to 
me.  The  gentle  rain  which  waters  my 
beans  and  keeps  me  in  the  house  to-day 
is  not  drear  and  melancholy,  but  good  for 
me  too.  Though  it  prevents  my  hoeing 
them,  it  is  of  far  more  worth  than  my 
hoeing.  If  it  should  continue  so  long  as 
to  cause  the  seeds  to  rot  in  the  ground 
and  destroy  the  potatoes  in  the  lowlands, 
it  would  still  be  good  for  the  grass  on 
the  uplands,  and  being  good  for  the 
grass,  it  would  be  good  for  me.  Some- 
times, when  I  compare  myself  with  other 
men,  it  seems  as  if  I  were  more  favored 
by  the  gods  than  they,  beyond  any  de- 
serts that  I  am  conscious  of  ;  as  if  I  had 
a  warrant  and  surety  at  their  hands  which 
my  fellows  have  not,  and  were  especially 
guided  and  guarded.  I  do  not  flatter 
myself,  but  if  it  be  possible  they  flatter 
me.  I  have  never  felt  lonesome,  or  in 
the  least  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  soli- 


HENRY   DAVID    THOREAU. 


tude,  but  once,  and  that  was  a  few  weeks 
after  I  came  to  the  wpods,  when,  for  an  hour,  I  doubted  if  the  near  neighborhood  of 
man  was  not  essential  to  a  serene  and  healthy  life.  To  be  alone  was  something 
unpleasant.  But  I  was  at  the  same  time  conscious  of  a  slight  insanity  in  my  mood, 


34 


SPRING    PROSPECTS. 


and  seemed  to  foresee  my  recovery.  In  the  midst  of  a  gentle  rain,  while  these 
thoughts  prevailed,  I  was  suddenly  sensible  of  such  sweet  and  beneficent  society  in 
Nature,  in  the  very  pattering  of  the  drops,  and  in  every  sound  and  sight  around  my 
house,  an  infinite  and  unaccountable  friendliness  all  at  once  like  an  atmosphere  sus- 
taining me,  as  made  the  fancied  advantages  of  human  neighborhood  insignificant,  and 
I  have  never  thought  of  them  since.  Every  little  pine-needle  expanded  and  swelled 
with  sympathy  and  befriended  me.  I  was  so  distinctly  made  aware  of  the  presence 
of  something  kindred  to  me,  even  in  scenes  which  we  are  accustomed  to  call  wild 
and  dreary,  and  also  that  the  nearest  of  blood  to  me  and  humanest  was  not  a  person 
nor  a  villager,  that  I  thought  no  place  could  ever  be  strange  to  me  again. 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 


SPRING     PROSPECTS. 


-  WE  talk  about  spring  as  at  hand  before  the  end  of  February,  and  yet  it  will  be 
two  good  months,  one  sixth  part  of  the  whole  year,  before  we  can  go  a-Maying. 
There  may  be  a  whole  month  of  solid  and  uninterrupted  winter  yet,  plenty  of  ice, 
and  good  sleighing.  We  may  not  even  see  the  bare  ground,  and  hardly  the  water  ; 
and  yet  we  sit  down  and  warm  our  spirits  annually  with  the  distant  prospect  of 
spring.  As  if  a  man  were  to  warm  his  hands  by  stretching  them  towards  the  ris- 
ing sun,  and  rubbing  them.  We  listen  to  the  February  cock-crowing  and  turkey- 
gobbling  as  to  a  first  course  or  prelude.  The  bluebird,  which  some  wood-chopper 
or  inspired  walker  is  said  to  have  seen  in  that  sunny  interval  between  the  snow- 
storms, is  like  a  speck  of  clear  blue  sky  seen  near  the  end  of  a  storm,  reminding  us 
of  an  ethereal  region,  and  a  heaven  which  we  had  forgotten.  Princes  and  magis- 
trates are  often  styled  serene  ;  but  what  is  their  turbid  serenity  to  that  ethereal 
serenity  which  the  bluebird  embodies.  His  most  serene  Birdship !  His  soft 
warble  melts  in  the  ear  as  the  snow  is  melting  in  the  valleys  around.  The  bluebird 
comes,  and  with  his  warble  drills  the  ice,  and  sets  free  the  rivers  and  ponds  and 
frozen  ground.  As  the  sand  flows  down  the  slopes  a  little  way,  assuming  the 
forms  of  foliage  when  the  frost  comes  out  of  the  ground,  so  this  little  rill  of  melody 
flows  a  short  way  down  the  concave  of  the  sky. 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 


ON    MR.     FOOT'S    RESOLUTION.  35 


ON     MR.     FOOT'S     RESOLUTION. 

SIR,  at  that  day  the  whole  country  was  divided  on  this  very  question.  It  formed 
the  line  of  demarcation  between  the  federal  and  republican  parties  ;  and  the  great 
political  revolution  which  then  took  place  turned  upon  the  very  questions  involved 
in  these  resolutions.  That  question  was  decided  by  the  people,  and  by  that  deci- 
sion the  Constitution  was,  in  the  emphatic  language  of  Mr.  Jefferson,  "saved  at  its 
last  gasp."  I  should  suppose,  sir,  it  would  require  more  self-respect  than  any 
gentleman  here  would  be  willing  to  assume,  to  treat  lightly  doctrines  derived  from 
such  high  sources.  Resting  on  authority  like  this,  I  will  ask,  gentlemen,  whether 
South  Carolina  has  not  manifested  a  high  regard  for  the  Union,  when,  under  a 
tyranny  ten  times  more  grievous  than  the  alien  and  sedition  laws,  she  has  hitherto 
gone  no  further  than  to  petition,  remonstrate  and  to  solemnly  protest  against  a 
series  of  measures  which  she  believes  to  be  wholly  unconstitutional  and  utterly 
destructive  of  her  interests.  Sir,  South  Carolina  has  not  gone  one  step  further 
than  Mr.  Jefferson  himself  was  disposed  to  go,  in  relation  to  the  present  subject  of 
our  present  complaints  —  not  a  step  further  than  the  statesmen  from  New  England 
were  disposed  to  go  under  similar  circumstances  ;  no  further  than  the  Senator  from 
Massachusetts  himself  once  considered  as  within  "the  limits  of  a  constitutional 
opposition."  The  doctrine  that  it  is  the  right  of  a  State  to  judge  of  the  violations 
of  the  Constitution  on  the  part  of  the  Federal  Government,  and  to  protect  her  citi- 
zens from  the  operations  of  unconstitutional  laws,  was  held  by  the  enlightened 
citizens  of  Boston,  who  assembled  in  Faneuil  Hall,  on  the  25th  of  January,  1809. 
They  state,  in  that  celebrated  memorial,  that  "they  looked  only  to  the  State  Legis- 
lature, which  was  competent  to  devise  relief  againt  the  unconstitutional  acts  of  the 
General  Government.  That  your  power  (say  they)  is  adequate  to  that  object,  is 
evident  from  the  organization  of  the  confederacy."  .  .  . 

Thus  it  will  be  seen,  Mr.  President,  that  the  South  Carolina  doctrine  is  the 
Republican  doctrine  of  '98  —that  it  was  promulgated  by  the  fathers  of  the  faith  - 
that  it  was  maintained  by  Virginia  and  Kentucky  in  the  worst  of  times  — that  it 
constituted  the  very  pivot  on  which  the  political  revolution  of  that  day  turned  — 
that  it  embraces  the  very  principles,  the  triumph  of  which,  at  that  time,  saved  the 
Constitution  at  its  last  gasp,  and  which  New  England  statesmen  were  not  unwilling 
to  adopt  when  they  believed  themselves  to  be  the  victims  of  unconstitutional  legis- 
lation. Sir,  as  to  the  doctrine  that  the  Federal  Government  is  the  exclusive  judge 
of  the  extent  as  well  as  the  limitations  of  its  power,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  utterly 
subversive  of  the  sovereignty  and  independence  of  the  States.  It  makes  but  little 
difference,  in  my  estimation,  whether  Congress  or  the  Supreme  Court  are  invested 
with  this  power.  If  the  Federal  Government,  in  all,  or  any,  of  its  departments,  is  to 
prescribe  the  limits  of  its  own  authority,  and  the  States  are  bound  to  submit  to  the 
decision,  and  are  not  to  be  allowed  to  examine  and  decide  for  themselves  when  the 
barriers  of  the  Constitution  shall  be  overleaped,  his  is  practically  "  a  government 


36  REPLY    TO    HA  YNE. 

without  limitation  of  powers."  The  States  are  at  once  reduced  to  mere  petty 
corporations,  and  the  people  are  entirely  at  your  mercy.  I  have  but  one  word  more 
to  add.  In  all  the  efforts  that  have  been  made  by  South  Carolina  to  resist  the  un- 
constitutional laws  which  Congress  has  extended  over  them,  she  has  kept  steadily 
in  view  the  preservation  of  the  Union,  by  the  only  means  by  which  she  believes  it 
can  be  long  preserved — a  firm,  manly,  and  steady  resistance  against  usurpation. 
The  measures  of  the  Federal  Government  have,  it  is  true,  prostrated  her  interests, 
and  will  soon  involve  the  whole  South  in  irretrievable  ruin.  But  even  this  evil, 
great  as  it  is,  is  not  the  chief  ground  of  our  complaints.  It  is  the  principle  involved 
in  the  contest  — a  principle  which,  substituting  the  discretion  of  Congress  for  the 
limitations  of  the  Constitution,  brings  the  States  and  the  people  to  the  feet  of  the 
Federal  Government,  and  leaves  them  nothing  they  can  call  their  own.  Sir,  if  the 
measures  of  the  Federal  Government  were  less  oppressive,  we  should  still  strive 
against  this  usurpation.  The  South  is  acting  on  a  principle  she  has  always  held 
sacred  —  resistance  to  unauthorized  taxation.  These,  sir,  are  the  principles  which 
induced  the  immortal  Hampden  to  resist  the  payment  of  a  tax  of  twenty  shillings. 
Would  twenty  shillings  have  ruined  his  fortune  ?  No  !  but  the  payment  of  half  of 
twenty  shillings,  on  the  principle  on  which  it  was  demanded,  would  have  made  him 
a  slave.  Sir,  if  acting  on  these  high  motives  —  if  animated  by  that  ardent  love  of 
liberty  which  has  always  been  the  most  prominent  trait  in  the  Southern  character, 
we  would  be  hurried  beyond  the  bounds  of  a  cold  and  calculating  prudence  —  who  is 
there,  with  one  noble  and  generous  sentiment  in  his  bosom,  who  would  not  be  dis- 
posed, in  the  language  of  Burke,  to  exclaim,  "  You  must  pardon  something  to  the 
spirit  of  liberty  "  ? 

ROBERT  Y.   HAYNE. 


REPLY     TO     HAYNE. 

MR.  PRESIDENT,  I  have  thus  stated  the  reasons  of  my  dissent  to  the  doctrines 
which  have  been  advanced  and  maintained.  I  am  conscious  of  having  detained  you 
and  the  Senate  much  too  long.  I  was  drawn  into  the  debate  with  no  previous  de- 
liberation, such  as  is  suited  to  the  discussion  of  so  grave  and  important  a  subject. 
But  it  is  a  subject  of  which  my  heart  is  full,  and  I 'have  not  been  willing  to  sup- 
press the  utterance  of  its  spontaneous  sentiments.  I  cannot,  even  now,  persuade 
myself  to  relinquish  it,  without  expressing  once  more  my  deep  conviction,  that, 
since  it  respects  nothing  less  than  the  union  of  States,  it  is  of  most  vital  and  es- 
sential importance  to  the  public  happiness.  I  profess,  sir,  in  my  career  hitherto,  to 
have  kept  steadily  in  view  the  prosperity  and  honor  of  the  whole  country,  and  the 
preservation  of  our  Federal  Union.  It  is  to  that  Union  we  owe  our  safety  at  home, 
and  our  consideration  and  dignity  abroad.  It  is  to  that  Union  that  we  are  chiefly 
indebted  for  whatever  makes  us  most  proud  of  our  country.  That  Union  we  reached 


REPLY    TO    HA  YNE. 


37 


only  by  the  discipline  of  our  virtues  in  the  severe  school  of  adversity.  It  had  its 
origin  in  the  necessities  of  disordered  finance,  prostrate  commerce  and  ruined 
credit.  Under  its  benign  influences,  these  great  interests  immediately  awoke,  as 
from  the  dead,  and  sprang  forth  with  newness  of  life.  Every  year  of  its  duration  has 
teemed  with  fresh  proofs  of  its  utility  and  its  blessings  ;  and  although  our  territory 
has  stretched  out  wider  and  wider,  and  our  population  spread  farther  and  farther, 
they  have  not  outrun  its  protection  or  its  benefits.  It  has  been  to  us  all  a  copious 
fountain  of  national,  social,  and  personal  happiness. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  beyond  the  Union,  to  see  what  might  lie 
hidden  in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I  have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  pre- 
serving liberty  when  the  bonds  that  unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asunder.  I 
have  not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the  precipice  of  disunion,  to  see  whether, 


38  THE     CONSTITUTION    AND     THE     UNION. 

with  my  short  sight,  I  can  fathom  the  depth  of  the  abyss  below  ;  nor  could  I  re- 
gard him  as  a  safe  counsellor  in  the  affairs  of  this  Government,  whose  thoughts 
should  be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  Union  may  be  best  preserved, 
but  how  tolerable  might  be  the  condition  of  the  people  when  it  should  be  broken  up 
and  destroyed.  While  the  Union  lasts  we  have  high,  exciting,  gratifying  prospects 
spread  out  before  us,  for  us  and  our  children.  Beyond  that  I  seek  not  to  penetrate 
the  veil.  God  grant  that  in  my  day  at  least  that  curtain  may  not  rise  !  God  grant 
that  on  my  vision  never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind  !  When  my  eyes  shall 
be  turned  to  behold  for  the  last  time  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  I  not  see  him  shining 
on  the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments  of  a  once  glorious  Union  ;  on  States  dis- 
severed, discordant,  belligerent  ;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched,  it 
may  be,  in  fraternal  blood  !  Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  be- 
hold the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  Republic,  now  known  and  honored  throughout  the 
earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms  and  trophies  streaming  in  their  original 
luster,  not  a  stripe  erased  or  polluted,  not  a  single  star  obscured,  bearing  for  its 
motto,  no  such  miserable  interrogotary  as  "  What  is  all  this.worth  ?  "  nor  those 
other  words  of  delusion  and  folly,  "  Liberty  first  and  Union  afterward  ;  "  but  every- 
where, spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living  light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds, 
as  they  float  over  the  sea  and  over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole 
heavens,  that  other  sentiment,  dear  to  every  true  American  heart —  Liberty  and 
Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable  ! 

DANIEL  WEBSTER. 


THE     CONSTITUTION     AND     THE     UNION. 

MR.  PRESIDENT,  I  should  much  prefer  to  have  heard  from  every  member  on 
this  floor  declarations  of  opinion  that  this  Union  could  never  be  dissolved,  than  the 
declaration  of  opinion  by  anybody,  that  in  any  case,  under  the  pressure  of  any  cir- 
cumstances, such  a  dissolution  was  possible.  I  hear  with  distress  and  anguish  the 
word  "  secession,"  especially  when  it  falls  from  the  lips  of  those  who  are  patriotic, 
and  known  to  the  country,  and  known  all  over  the  world  for  their  political  services. 
Secession  !  Peaceable  secession  !  Sir,  your  eyes  and  mine  are  never  destined  to 
see  that  miracle.  The  dismemberment  of  this  vast  country  without  convulsion! 
The  breaking  up  of  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  without  ruffling  the  surface  ! 
Who  is  so  foolish  —  I  beg  everybody's  pardon  —  as  to  expect  to  see  any  such 
thing  ?  Sir,  he  who  sees  these  States,  now  revolving  in  harmony  around  a  common 
center,  and  expects  to  see  them  quit  their  places  and  fly  off  without  convulsion, 
may  look  the  next  hour  to  see  the  heavenly  bodies  rush  from  their  spheres,  and 
jostle  against  each  other  in  the  realms  of  space,  without  causing  the  wreck  of  the 
universe.  There  can  be  no  such  thing  as  a  peaceable  secession.  Peaceable  seces- 


THE     CONSTITUTION    AND     THE     UNION.  39 

sion  is  an  utter  impossibility.  Is  the  great  Constitution  under  which  we  live, 
covering  this  whole  country,  is  it  to  be  thawed  and  melted  away  by  secession,  as 
the  snows  on  the  mountain  melt  under  the  influence  of  a  vernal  sun,  disappear'  al- 
most unobserved,  and  run  off  ?  No,  sir  !  No,  sir !  I  will  not  state  what  might 
produce  the  disruption  of  the  Union  ;  but,  sir,  I  see  as  plainly  as  I  can  see  the  sun 
in  heaven  what  that  disruption  itself  must  produce  ;  I  see  that  it  must  produce  war, 
and  such  a  war  as  I  will  not  describe,  in  its  twofold  character. 

Peaceable  secession  !  Peaceable  secession  !  The  concurrent  agreement  of  all 
the  members  of  this  great  Republic  to  separate  !  A  voluntary  separation,  with 
alimony  on  one  side  and  on  the  other.  Why,  what  would  be  the  result  ?  Where 
is  the  line  to  be  drawn  ?  What  States  are  to  secede  ?  What  is  to  remain  Ameri- 
can ?  What  am  I  to  be?  An  American  no  longer  ?  Am  I  to  become  a  sectional 
man,  a  local  man,  a  separatist,  with  no  country  in  common  with  the  gentlemen  who 
sit  around  me  here,  or  who  fill  the  other  house  of  Congress  ?  Heaven  forbid  ! 
Where  is  the  flag  of  the  Republic  to  remain  ?  Where  is  the  eagle  still  to  tower  ? 
or  is  he  to  cower,  and  shrink,  and  fall  to  the  ground  ?  Why,  sir,  our  ancestors,  our 
fathers  and  our  grandfathers,  those  of  them  that  are  yet  living  amongst  us  with 
prolonged  lives,  would  rebuke  and  reproach  us  ;  and  our  children  and  our  grand- 
children would  cry  out  shame  upon  us,  if  we  of  this  generation  should  dishonor 
these  ensigns  of  the  power  of  the  Government  and  the  harmony  of  that  Union 
which  is  every  day  felt  among  us  with  so  much  joy  and  gratitude.  What  is  to  be- 
come of  the  army  ?  What  is  to  become  of  the  navy  ?  What  is  to  become  of  the 
public  lands?  How  is  each  of  the  thirty  States  to  defend  itself?  I  know,  although 
the  idea  has  not  been  stated  distinctly,  there  is  to  be,  or  it  is  supposed  possible 
that  there  will  be,  a  Southern  Confederacy.  I  do  not  mean,  when  I  allude  to  this 
statement,  that  any  one  seriously  contemplates  such  a  state  of  things.  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  it  is  true,  but  I  have  heard  it  suggested  elsewhere,  that  the  idea 
has  been  entertained,  that,  after  the  dissolution  of  this  Union,  a  Southern  Con- 
federacy might  be  formed.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  it  has  ever  been  thought  of,  talked 
of,  in  the  wildest  flights  of  human  imagination.  But  the  idea,  so  far  as  it  exists, 
must  be  of  a  separation,  assigning  the  slave  States  to  one  side,  and  the  free  States 
to  the  other.  Sir,  I  may  express  myself  too  strongly,  perhaps,  but  there  are  im- 
possibilities in  the  natural  as  well  as  in  the  physical  world,  and  I  hold  the  idea  of 
the  separation  of  these  States,  those  that  are  free  to  form  one  government,  and 
those  that  are  slave-holding  to  form  another,  as  such  an  impossibility.  We  could 
not  separate  the  States  by  any  such  line,  if  we  were  to  draw  it.  We  could  not  sit 
down  here  to-day  and  draw  a  line  of  separation  that  would  satisfy  any  five  men  in 
the  country.  There  are  natural  causes  that  would  keep  and  tie  us  together,  and 
there  are  social  and  domestic  relations  which  we  could  not  break  if  we  would,  and 
which  we  should  not  if  we  could. 

Sir,  nobody  can  look  over  the  face  of  this  country  at  the  present  moment,  no- 
body can  see  where  its  population  is  the  most  dense  and  growing,  without  being 
ready  to  admit,  and  compelled  to  admit,  that  ere  long  the  strength  of  America  will  be 
in  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi.  Well,  now,  sir,  I  beg  to  inquire  what  the  wildest 


40  THE     CONSTITUTION    AND     THE     UNION. 

enthusiast  has  to  say  on  the  possibility  of  cutting  that  river  in  two,  and  leaving 
free  States  at  its  source  and  on  its  branches,  and  slave  States  down  near  its  mouth, 
each  forming  a  separate  government  ?  Pray,  sir,  let  me  say  to  the  people  of  this 
country,  that  these  things  are  worthy  of  their  pondering  and  of  their  consideration. 
Here,  sir,  are  five  millions  of  freemen  in  the  free  States  north  of  the  river  Ohio. 
Can  anybody  suppose  that  this  population  can  be  severed,  by  a  line  that  divides 
them  from  the  territory  of  a  foreign  and  alien  government,  down  somewhere,  the 
Lord  knows  where,  upon  the  lower  banks  of  the  Mississippi  ?  What  would  become 
of  Missouri  ?  Will  she  join  the  arrondissement  of  the  slave  States  ?  Shall  the 
man  from  the  Yellowstone  and  the  Platte  be  connected,  in  the  new  republic,  with 
the  man  who  lives  on  the  southern  extremity  of  the  Cape  of  Florida  ?  Sir,  I  am 
ashamed  to  pursue  this  line  of  remark.  I  dislike  it  ;  I  have  an  utter  disgust  for  it. 
I  would  rather  hear  of  natural  blasts  and  mildews,  war,  pestilence,  and  famine,  than 
to  hear  gentlemen  talk  of  secession.  To  break  up  this  great  Government  !  to  dis- 
member this  glorious  country !  to  astonish  Europe  with  an  act  of  folly  such  as 
Europe  for  two  centuries  has  never  beheld  in  any  government  or  any  people  !  No, 
sir  !  no,  sir!  There  will  be  no  secession  !  Gentlemen  are  not  serious  when  they 
talk  of  secession. 

Sir,  I  hear  there  is  to  be  a  convention  held  at  Nashville.  I  am  bound  to  believe 
that  if  worthy  gentlemen  meet  at  Nashville  in  convention,  their  object  will  be  to 
adopt  conciliatory  counsels  ;  to  advise  the  South  to  forbearance  and  moderation, 
and  to  advise  the  North  to  forbearance  and  moderation  ;  and  to  inculcate  principles 
of  brotherly  love  and  affection,  and  attachment  to  the  Constitution  of  the  country 
as  it  now  is.  I  believe,  if  the  convention  meet  at  all,  it  will  be  for  this  purpose  ; 
for  certainly,  if  they  meet  for  any  purpose  hostile  to  the  Union,  they  have  been 
singularly  inappropriate  in  their  selection  of  a  place.  I  remember,  sir,  that,  when 
the  treaty  of  Amiens  was  concluded  between  France  and  England,  a  sturdy 
Englishman  and  a  distinguished  orator,  who  regarded  the  conditions  of  the  peace 
as  ignominious  to  England,  said  in  the  House  of  Commons,  that  if  King  William 
could  know  the  terms  of  that  treaty,  he  would  turn  in  his  coffin  !  Let  me  com- 
mend this  saying  to  Mr.  Windham,  in  all  its  emphasis  and  in  all  its  force,  to  any 
persons  who  shall  meet  at  Nashville  for  the  purpose  of  concerting  measures  for  the 
overthrow  of  this  Union  over  the  bones  of  Andrew  Jackson.  .  .  . 

And  now,  Mr.  President,  instead  of  speaking  of  the  possibility  or  utility  of 
secession,  instead  of  dwelling  in  those  caverns  of  darkness,  instead  of  groping  with 
those  ideas  so  full  of  all  that  is  horrid  and  horrible,  let  us  come  out  into  the  light 
of  the  day  ;  let  us  enjoy  the  fresh  air  of  Liberty  and  Union  ;  let  us  cherish  those 
hopes  which  belong  to  us  ;  let  us  devote  ourselves  to  those  great  objects  that  are 
fit  for  our  consideration  and  our  action  ;  let  us  raise  our  conceptions  to  the  magni- 
tude and  the  importance  of  the  duties  that  devolve  upon  us  ;  let  our  comprehension 
be  as  broad  as  the  country  for  which  we  act,  our  aspirations  as  high  as  -its  certain 
destiny  ;  let  us  not  be  pigmies  in  a  case  that  calls  for  men.  Never  did  there  de- 
volve on  any  generation  of  men  higher  trusts  than  now  devolve  upon  us,  for  the 
preservation  of  this  Constitution  and  the  harmony  and  peace  of  all  who  are  destined 


ON    PRIDE.  41 

to  live  under  it.  Let  us  make  our  generation  one  of  the  strongest  and  brightest 
links  in  that  golden  chain  which  is  destined,  I  fondly  believe,  to  grapple  the  people 
of  all  the  States  to  this  Constitution  for  ages  to  come.  We  have  a  great,  popular, 
Constitutional  Government,  guarded  by  law  and  by  judicature,  and  defended  by 
the  affections  of  the  whole  people.  No  monarchical  throne  presses  these  States 
together,  no  iron  chain  of  military  power  encircles  them  ;  they  live  and  stand  under 
a  Government  popular  in  its  form,  representative  in  its  character,  founded  upon 
principles  of  equality,  and  so  constructed,  we  hope,  as  to  last  forever.  In  all  its 
history  it  has  been  beneficent ;  it  has  trodden  down  no  man's  liberty  ;  it  has  crushed 
no  State.  Its  daily  respiration  is  liberty  and  patriotism  ;  its  yet  youthful  veins 
are  full  of  enterprise,  courage,  and  honorable  love  of  glory  and  renown.  Large  be- 
fore, the  country  has  now,  by  recent  events,  become  vastly  larger.  This  republic 
now  extends,  with  a  vast  breadth  across  the  whole  continent.  The  two  great  seas 
of  the  world  wash  the  one  and  the  other  shore.  We  realize,  on  a  mighty  scale,  the 
beautiful  description  of  the  ornamental  border  of  the  buckler  of  Achilles  : 

"  Now,  the  broad  shield  complete,  the  artist  crowned 
With  his  last  hand,  and  poured  the  ocean  round ; 
In  living  silver  seemed  the  waves  to  roll, 
And  beat  the  buckler's  verge,  and  bound  the  whole." 

DANIEL  WEBSTER. 


ON     PRIDE. 

I  THANK  God  amongst  those  millions  of  vices  I  do  inherit  and  hold  from  Adam, 
I  have  escaped  one,  and  that  a  mortal  enemy  to  charity,  the  first  and  father  sin,  not 
only  of  man,  but  of  the  devil  —  pride  ;  a  vice  whose  name  is  comprehended  in  a 
monosyllable,  but  in  its  nature  not  circumscribed  with  a  world  ;  I  have  escaped  it 
in  a  condition  that  can  hardly  avoid  it ;  those  petty  acquisitions  and  reputed  per- 
fections that  advance  and  elevate  the  conceits  of  other  men,  add  no  feathers  into 
mine.  I  have  seen  a  grammarian  tour  and  plume  himself  over  a  single  line  in 
Horace,  and  show  more  pride  in  the  construction  of  one  ode,  than  the  author  in  the 
composure  of  the  whole  book.  For  my  own  part,  besides  the  jargon  and  patois  of 
several  provinces,  I  understand  no  less  than  six  languages ;  yet  I  protest  I  have  no 
higher  conceit  of  myself,  than  had  our  fathers  before  the  confusion  of  Babel,  when 
there  was  but  one  language  in  the  world,  and  none  to  boast  himself  either  linguist 
or  critic.  I  have  not  only  seen  several  countries,  beheld  the  nature  of  their  climes, 
the  chorography  of  their  provinces,  topography  of  their  cities,  but  understood  their 
several  laws,  customs  and  policies  ;  yet  cannot  all  this  persuade  the  dullness  of  my 
spirit  unto  such  an  opinion  of  myself,  as  I  behold  in  nimbler  and  conceited  heads, 
that  never  looked  a  degree  beyond  their  nests.  I  know  the  names,  and  somewhat 
more,  of  all  the  constellations  in  my  horizon  ;  yet  I  have  seen  a  prating  mariner 


42  BEN  JONSON. 

that  could  only  name  the  pointers  and  the  North  star,  out-talk  me,  and  conceit  him- 
self a  whole  sphere  above  me.  I  know  most  of  the  plants  of  my  country,  and  of 
those  about  me ;  yet  methinks  I  do  not  know  so  many  as  when  I  did  but  know  a 
hundred,  and  had  scarcely  ever  simpled  further  than  Cheapside  ;  for  indeed  heads 
of  capacity,  and  such  as  are  not  full  with  a  handful,  or  easy  measure  of  knowledge, 
think  they  know  nothing  till  they  know  all  ;  which  being  impossible,  they  fall  upon 
the  opinion  of  Socrates,  and  only  know  they  know  not  any  thing. 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 


BEN     JONSON. 

As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I  am  now  arrived,  if  we  look  upon  him  while 
he  was  himself  (for  his  last  plays  were  but  his  dotages),  I  think  him  the  most  learned 
and  judicious  writer  which  any  theater  ever  had.  He  was  a  most  severe  judge  of 
himself  as  well  as  others.  One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit,  but  rather  that  he  was 
frugal  of  it.  In  his  works  you  find  little  to  retrench  or  alter.  Wit,  and  language, 
and  humor,  also  in  some  measure,  we  had  before  him  ;  but  something  of  art  was 
wanting  to  the  drama,  till  he  came.  He  managed  his  strength  to  more  advantage 
than  any  who  preceded  him.  You  seldom  find  him  making  love  in  any  of  his  scenes, 
or  endeavoring  to  move  the  passions ;  his  genius  was  too  sullen  and  saturnine  to 
do  it  gracefully,  especially  when  he  knew  he  came  after  those  who  had  performed 
both  to  such  a  height.  Humor  was  his  proper  sphere  ;  and  in  that  he  delighted 
most  to  represent  mechanical  people.  He  was  deeply  conversant  in  the  ancients, 
both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed  boldly  from  them  ;  there  is  scarce  a  poet 
or  historian  among  the  Roman  authors  of  those  times,  whom  he  has  not  translated 
in  Sejanus  and  Catiline.  But  he  has  done  his  robberies  so  openly,  that  one  may 
see  he  fears  not  to  be  taxed  by  any  law.  He  invades  authors  like  a  monarch  ;  and 
what  would  be  theft  in  other  poets,  is  only  victory  in  him.  With  the  spoils  of  these 
writers  he  so  represents  old  Rome  to  us,  in  his  rites,  ceremonies,  and  customs,  that 
if  one  of  their  poets  had  written  either  of  his  tragedies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it  than 
in  him.  If  there  was  any  fault  in  his  language,  'twas  that  he  weaved  it  too  closely 
and  laboriously,  in  his  comedies  especially  :  perhaps,  too,  he  did  a  little  too  much 
Romanize  our  tongue,  leaving  the  words  which  he  translated  almost  as  much  Latin 
as  he  found  them  ;  wherein,  though  he  learnedly  followed  their  language,  he  did  not 
enough  comply  with  the  idiom  of  ours.  If  I  would  compare  him  with  Shakespeare, 
I  must  acknowledge  him  the  more  correct  poet,  but  Shakespeare  the  greater  wit. 
Shakespeare  was  the  Homer,  or  father  of  our  dramatic  poets:  Jonson  was  the 
Virgil,  the  pattern  of  elaborate  writing:  I  admire  him,  but  I  love  Shakespeare. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 


ON    STUDIES. 


43 


ON     STUDIES. 


STUDIES  serve  for  delight, 
for  ornament,  and  for  ability. 
Their  chief  use  for  delight  is  in 
privateness  and  retiring ;  for 
ornament,  is  in  discourse  ;  and 
for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment 
and  disposition  of  business  ;  for 
expert  men  can  execute,  and 
perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one 
by  one  ;  but  the  general  coun- 
sels, and  the  plots  and  marshal- 
ling of  affairs,  come  best  from 
those  that  are  learned.  To 
spend  too  much  time  in  studies, 
is  sloth  ;  to  use  them  too  much 
for  ornament,  is  affectation  ;  to 
make  judgment  wholly  by  their 
rules,  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar  ; 
they  perfect  nature,  and  are  per- 
fected by  experience  —  for  na- 
tural abilities  are  like  natural 
plants,  that  need  pruning  by 
study  ;  and  studies  themselves 
do  give  forth  directions  too 
much  at  large,  except  they  be 

bound  in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  simple  men  admire  them, 
and  wise  men  use  them  ;  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use ;  but  that  is  a  wisdom 
without  them,  and  above  them,  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to  contradict  and 
confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to 
weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some 
few  to  be  chewed  and  digested  :  that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts  ; 
others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously  ;  and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with 
diligence  and  attention.  Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts 
made  of  them  by  others  ;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments 
and  the  meaner  sort  of  books  ;  else  distilled  books  are,  like  common  distilled  waters, 
flashy  things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and  writing 
an  exact  man  ;  and,  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  memory  ; 
if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit  ;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had 
need  have  much  cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not. 

FRANCIS  BACON. 


FRANCIS    BACON. 


44  ON    BACON.— SIR     ROGER    DE     COVERLEY. 


ON     BACON. 

ONE,  though  he  be  excellent,  and  the  chief,  is  not  to  be  imitated  alone  ;  for  no 
imitator  ever  grew  up  to  his  author  ;  likeness  is  always  on  this  side  truth.  Yet 
there  happened  in  my  time  one  noble  speaker,  who  was  full  of  gravity  in  his  speak- 
ing. His  language  (where  he  could  spare  or  pass  by  a  jest)  was  nobly  censorious. 
No  man  ever  spake  more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weightily,  or  suffered  less 
emptiness,  less  idleness,  in  what  he  uttered.  No  member  of  his  speech  but  con- 
sisted of  his  own  graces.  His  hearers  could  not  cough,  or  look  aside  from  him, 
without  loss.  He  commanded  where  he  spoke ;  and  had  his  judges  angry  and 
pleased  at  his  devotion.  No  man  had  their  affections  more  in  his  power.  The  fear 
of  every  man  that  heard  him  was,  lest  he  should  make  an  end. 

My  conceit  of  his  person  was  never  increased  toward  him  by  his  place  or  honors, 
but  I  have  and  do  reverence  him  for  the  greatness  that  was  only  proper  to  himself, 
in  that  he  seemed  to  me  ever,  by  his  work,  one  of  the  greatest  men,  and  most 
worthy  of  admiration,  that  had  been  in  many  ages.  In  his  adversity  I  ever  prayed 
that  God  would  give  him  strength  ;  for  greatness  he  could  not  want.  Neither  could 
I  condole  in  a  word  or  syllable  for  him,  as  knowing  no  accident  could  do  harm  to 
virtue,  but  rather  help  to  make  it  manifest. 

BEN  JONSON. 


SIR     ROGER     DE     COVERLEY. 

HAVING  often  received  an  invitation  from  my  friend  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  to 
pass  away  a  month  with  him  in  the  country,  I  last  week  accompanied  him  thither, 
and  am  settled  with  him  for  some  time  at  his  country-house,  where  I  intend  to 
form  several  of  my  ensuing  speculations.  Sir  Roger,  who  is  very  well  acquainted 
with  my  humor,  lets  me  rise  and  go  to  bed  when  I  please,  dine  at  his  own  table  or 
in  my  chamber  as  I  think  fit,  sit  still  and  say  nothing  without  bidding  me  be  merry. 
When  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  come  to  see  him,  he  only  shows  me  at  a  dis- 
tance. As  I  have  been  walking  in  his  fields,  I  have  observed  them  stealing  a  sight 
of  me  overa  hedge,  and  have  heard  the  knight  desiring  them  not  to  let  me  see  them, 
for  that  I  hated  to  be  stared  at. 

I  am  the  more  at  ease  in  Sir  Roger's  family,  because  it  consists  of  sober  and 
staid  persons  ;  for  as  the  knight  is  the  best  master  in  the  world,  he  seldom  changes 
his  servants  ;  and  as  he  is  beloved  by  all  about  him,  his  servants  never  care  for 
leaving  him  :  by  this  means  his  domestics  are  all  in  years,  and  grown  old  with  their 
master.  You  would  take  his  valet-de-chambre  for  his  brother,  his  butler  is  gray- 
headed,  his  groom  is  one  of  the  gravest  men  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  his  coach- 


SIX    ROGER    DE     COVERLEY. 


45 


man  has  the  looks  of  a  privy-counsellor.  You  see  the  goodness  of  the  master  even 
in  the  old  house-dog,  and  in  a  gray  pad  that  is  kept  in  the  stable  with  great  care 
and  tenderness  out  of  regard  to  his  past  services,  though  he  has  been  useless  for 
several  years. 

I  could  not  but  observe  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  the  joy  that  appeared  in 
the  countenances  of  these  ancient  domestics  upon  my  friend's  arrival  at  his  country 
seat.  Some  of  them  could  not  refrain  from  tears  at  the  sight  of  their  old  master  ; 
every  one  of  them  pressed  forward  to  do  something  for  him,  and  seemed  discouraged 
if  they  were  not  employed.  At  the  same  time  the  good  old  knight,  with  a  mixture 
of  the  father  and  the  master  of  the  family,  tempered  the  inquiries  after  his  own 
affairs  with  several  kind  questions  relating  to  themselves.  This  humanity  and  good 
nature  engages  everybody  to  him,  so  that 
when  he  is  pleasant  upon  any  of  them,  all  his 
family  are  in  good  humor,  and  non£  so  much 
as  the  person  whom  he  diverts  himself  with : 
on  the  contrary,  if  he  coughs,  or  betrays  any 
infirmity  of  old  age,  it  is  easy  for  a  stancler-by 
to  observe  a  secret  concern  in  the  looks  of 
all  his  servants. 

My  worthy  friend  has  put  me  under  the 
particular  care  of  his  butler,  who  is  a  very 
prudent  man,  and,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  his 
fellow-servants,  wonderfully  desirous  of  pleas- 
ing me,  because  they  have  often  heard  their 
master  talk  of  me  as  his  particular  friend. 

My  chief  companion,  when  Sir  Roger  is 
diverting  himself  in  the  woods  or  the  fields, 
is  a  very  venerable  man  who  is  ever  with  Sir 
Roger,  and  has  lived  at  his  house  in  the 
nature  of  a  chaplain  above  thirty  years.  This  gentleman  is  a  person  of  good 
sense  and  some  learning,  of  a  very  regular  life  and  obliging  conversation  :  he 
heartily  loves  Sir  Roger,  and  knows  that  he  is  very  much  in  the  old  knight's 
esteem,  so  that  he  lives  in  the  family  rather  as  a  relation  than  a  dependent. 

I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers,  that  my  friend  Sir  Roger,  amidst  all 
his  good  qualities,  is  something  of  a  humorist  ;  and  that  his  virtues,  as  well  as  im- 
perfections, are  as  it  were  tinged  by  a  certain  extravagance,  which  makes  them  par- 
ticularly his,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those  of  other  men.  This  cast  of  mind,  as 
it  is  generally  very  innocent  in  itself,  so  it  renders  his  conversation  highly  agreeable, 
and  more  delightful  than  the  same  degree  of  sense  and  virtue  would  appear  in  their 
common  and  ordinary  colors.  As  I  was  walking  with  him  last  night,  he  asked  me 
how  I  liked  the  good  man  whom  I  have  just  now  mentioned,  and  without  staying 
for  my  answer  told  me  that  he  was  afraid  of  being  insulted  with  Latin  and  Greek 
at  his  own  table  ;  for  which  reason  he  desired  a  particular  friend  of  his  at  the  uni- 
versity to  find  him  out  a  clergyman  rather  of  plain  sense  than  much  learning,  of  a 


JOSEPH    ADDISON. 


46 


SIX    ROGER    DE     COVERLEY. 


good  aspect,  a  clear  voice,  a  sociable  temper,  and,  if  possible,  a  man  that  understood 
a  little  of  backgammon.  "  My  friend,"  says  Sir  Roger,  "  found  me  out  this  gentle- 
man, who,  besides  the  endowments  required  of  him,  is,  they  tell  me,  a  good  scholar, 
though  he  does  not  show  it.  I  have  given  him  the  parsonage  of  the  parish ;  and, 
because  I  know  his  value,  have  settled  upon  him  a  good  annuity  for  life.  If  he 
outlives  me,  he  shall  find  that  he  was  higher  in  my  esteem  than  perhaps  he  thinks 
he  is.  He  has  now  been  with  me  thirty  years  ;  and  though  he  does  not  know  I  have 
taken  notice  of  it,  has  never  in  all  that  time  asked  anything  of  me  for  himself, 
though  he  is  every  day  soliciting  me  for  something  in  behalf  of  one  or  other  of  my 
tenants,  his  parishioners.  There  has  not  been  a  lawsuit  in  the  parish  since  he  has 
lived  among  them  ;  if  any  dispute  arises,  they  apply  themselves  to  him  for  the 
decision  ;  if  they  do  not  acquiesce  in  his  judgment,  which  I  think  never  happened 
above  once  or  twice  at  most,  they  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first  settling  with  me,  I 
made  him  a  present  of  all  the  good  sermons  which  have  been  printed  in  English, 
and  only  begged  of  him  that  every  Sunday  he  would  pronounce  one  of  them  in  the 
pulpit.  Accordingly  he  has  digested  them  into  such  a  series,  that  they  follow  one 
another  naturally,  and  make  a  continued  system  of  practical  divinity." 

As  Sir  Roger  was  going  on  in  his  story,  the  gentleman  we  were  talking  of  came 
up  to  us  ;  and  upon  the  knight's  asking  him  who  preached  to-morrow  (for  it  was 
Saturday  night),  told  us,  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph  in  the  morning  and  Dr.  South  in 
the  afternoon.  He  then  showed  us  his  list  of  preachers  for  the  whole  year,  where 
I  saw  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  Archbishop  Tillotson,  Bishop  Saunderson,  Dr. 
Barrow,  Dr.  Calamy,  with  several  living  authors  who  have  published  discourses  of 
practical  divinity.  I  no  sooner  saw  this  venerable  man  in  the  pulpit,  but  I  very 
much  approved  of  my  friend's  insisting  upon  the  qualifications  of  a  good  aspect 
and  a  clear  voice  ;  for  I  was  so  charmed  with  the  gracefulness  of  his  figure  and 
delivery,  as  well  as  with  the  discourses  he  pronounced,  that  I  think  I  never  passed 
any  time  more  to  my  satisfaction.  A  sermon  repeated  after  this  manner  is  like  the 
composition  of  a  poet  in  the  mouth  of  a  graceful  actor. 

I  could  heartily  wish  that  more  of  our  country  clergy  would  follow  this  example  ; 
and  instead  of  wasting  their  spirits  in  laborious  compositions  of  their  own,  would 
endeavor  after  a  handsome  elocution,  and  all  those  other  talents  that  are  proper  to 
enforce  what  has  been  penned  by  great  masters.  This  would  not  only  be  more  easy 
to  themselves,  but  more  edifying  to  the  people. 

JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


THE    STRENGTH    OF    TRUE    LOVE.  47 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  TRUE  LOVE. 

A  YOUNG  gentleman  and  lady  of  ancient  and  honorable  houses  in  Cornwall  had 
from  their  childhood  entertained  for  each  other  a  generous  and  noble  passion,  which 
had  been  long  opposed  by  their  friends,  by  reason  of  the  inequality  of  their  fortunes  ; 
but  their  constancy  to  each  other,  and  obedience  to  those  on  whom  they  depended, 
wrought  so  much  upon  their  relations,  that  these  celebrated  lovers  were  at  length 
joined  in  marriage.  Soon  after  their  nuptials  the  bridegroom  was  obliged  to  go  into 
a  foreign  country,  to  take  care  of  a  considerable  fortune  which  was  left  him  by  a 
relation,  and  came  very  opportunely  to  improve  their  moderate  circumstances. 
They  received  the  congratulations  of  all  the  country  on  this  occasion  ;  and  I  remem- 
ber it  was  a  common  sentence  in  every  one's  mouth,  "  You  see  how  faithful  love  is 
rewarded." 

He  took  this  agreeable  voyage,  and  sent  home  every  post  fresh  accounts  of  his 
success  in  his  affairs  abroad  ;  but  at  last,  though  he 
designed  to  return  with  the  next  ship,  he  lamented  in 
his  letters  that  "business  would  detain  him  sometime 
longer  from  home,"  because  he  would  give  himself  the 
pleasure  of  an  unexpected  arrival. 

The  young  lady,  after  the  heat  of  the  day,  walked  ,  j^-.,  ^r  - 

every  evening  on  the  sea-shore,  near  which  she  lived,      •*•  • 


with  a  familiar  friend,  her  husband's  kinswoman  ;  and 
diverted  herself  with  what  objects  they  met  there,  or 
upon  discourses  of  the  future  methods  of  life,  in  the 
happy  change  of  their  circumstances.  They  stood  one 
evening  on  the  shore  together  in  a  perfect  tranquillity, 
observing  the  setting  of  the  sun,  the  calm  face  of  the  deep, 
and  the  silent  heaving  of  the  waves,  which  gently  rolled 

towards  them,  and  broke  at  their  feet  ;  when  at  a  distance  her  kinswoman  saw 
something  float  on  the  waters,  which  she  fancied  was  a  chest  ;  and  with  a  smile  told 
her,  "  She  saw  it  first,  and  if  it  came  ashore  full  of  jewels,  she  had  a  right  to  it." 
They  both  fixed  their  eyes  upon  it,  and  entertained  themselves  with  the  subject  of 
the  wreck,  the  cousin  still  asserting  her  right  ;  but  promising,  "  if  it  was  a  prize,  to 
give  her  a  very  rich  coral  for  her  youngest  child."  Their  mirth  soon  abated,  when 
they  observed,  upon  the  nearer  approach,  that  it  was  a  human  body.  The  young 
lady,  who  had  a  heart  naturally  filled  with  pity  and  compassion,  made  many  melan- 
choly reflections  on  the  occasion.  "  Who  knows,"  said  she,  "  but  this  man  may  be 
the  only  hope  and  heir  of  a  wealthy  house  ;  the  darling  of  indulgent  parents,  who 
are  now  in  impertinent  mirth,  and  pleasing  themselves  with  the  thoughts  of  offering 
him  a  bride  they  had  got  ready  for  him  ?  Or,  may  he  not  be  the  master  of  a  family 
that  wholly  depended  upon  his  life  ?  There  may,  for  aught  we  know,  be  half  a 
dozen  fatherless  children  and  a  tender  wife,  now  exposed  to  poverty  by  his  death. 


48  TALK. 

What  pleasure  might  he  have  promised  himself  in  the  different  welcome  he  was  to 
have  from  her  and  them  !  But  let  us  go  away  ;  it  is  a  dreadful  sight !  The  best 
office  we  can  do,  is  to  take  care  that  the  poor  man,  whoever  he  is,  may  be  decently 
buried."  She  turned  away,  when  a  wave  threw  the  carcass  on  the  shore.  The 
kinswoman  immediately  shrieked  out,  "  Oh,  my  cousin  !  "  and  fell  upon  the  ground. 
The  unhappy  wife  went  to  help  her  friend,  when  she  saw  her  own  husband  at  her 
feet,  and  dropped  in  a  swoon  upon  the  body.  An  old  woman,  who  had  been  the 
gentleman's  nurse,  came  out  about  this  time  to  call  the  ladies  to  supper,  and  found 
her  child,  as  she  always  called  him,  dead  on  the  shore,  her  mistress  and  kinswoman 
both  lying  dead  by  him.  Her  loud  lamentations,  and  calling  her  young  master  to 
life,  soon  awakefl  the  friend  from  her  trance  ;  but  the  wife  was  gone  for  ever. 

SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


TALK. 

I  REALLY  believe  some  people  save  their  bright  thoughts  as  being  too  precious 
for  conversation.  What  do  you  think  an  admiring  friend  said  the  other  day  to  one 
that  was  talking  good  things  —  good  enough  to  print  ?  "  Why,"  said  he,  "you  are 
wasting  merchantable  literature,  a  cash  article,  at  the  rate,  as  nearly  as  I  can  tell, 
of  fifty  dollars  an  hour."  The  talker  took  him  to  the  window,  and  asked  him  to 
look  out  and  tell  what  he  saw. 

"  Nothing  but  a  very  dusty  street,"  he  said,  "  and  a  man  driving  a  sprinkling- 
machine  through  it." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  the  man  he  is  wasting  that  water  ?  What  would  be  the 
state  of  the  highways  of  life,  if  we  did  not  drive  our  thought-sprinklers  through  them 
with  the  valves  open,  sometimes  ?  " 

Besides,  there  is  another  thing  about  this  talking  which  you  forget.  It  shapes 
our  thoughts  for  us ;  —  the  waves  of  conversation  roll  them  as  the  surf  rolls  the 
pebbles  on  the  shore.  Let  me  modify  the  image  a  little.  I  rough  out  my  thoughts 
in  talk  as  an  artist  models  in  clay.  Spoken  language  is  so  plastic,  —  you  can  pat 
and  coax,  and  spread  and  shave,  and  rub  out,  and  fill  up,  and  stick  on  so  easily, 
when  you  work  that  soft  material,  that  there  is  nothing  like  it  for  modelling.  Out 
of  it  come  the  shapes  which  you  turn  into  marble  or  bronze  in  your  immortal  books, 
if  you  happen  to  write  such.  Or,  to  use  another  illustration,  writing  or  printing  is 
like  shooting  with  a  rifle  ;  you  may  hit  your  reader's  mind,  or  miss  it ;  —  but  talk- 
ing is  like  playing  at  a  mark  with  the  pipe  of  an  engine  ;  if  it  is  within  reach,  and 
you  have  time  enough,  you  can't  help  hitting  it. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


WOUTER     VAN    TWILLER.  49 


WOUTER     VAN     TWILLER. 

THE  renowned  Wouter  (or  Walter)  Van  Twiller  was  descended  from  a  long  line 
of  Dutch  burgomasters,  who  had  successively  dozed  away  their  lives,  and  grown  fat 
upon  the  bench  of  magistracy  in  Rotterdam  ;  and  who  had  comported  themselves 
with  such  singular  wisdom  and  propriety,  that  they  were  never  either  heard  or  talked 
of — which,  next  to  being  universally  applauded,  should  be  the  object  of  ambition  of 
all  magistrates  and  rulers.  There  are  two  opposite  ways  by  which  some  men  make 
a  figure  in  the  world  ;  one,  by  talking  faster  than  they  think,  and  the  other,  by 
holding  their  tongues  and  not  thinking  at  all.  By  the  first,  many  a  smatterer  ac- 
quires the  reputation  of  a  man  of  quick  parts  ;  by  the  other,  many  a  dunderpate, 
like  the  owl,  the  stupidest  of  birds,  comes  to  be  considered  the  very  type  of  wis- 
dom. This,  by  the  way,  is  a  casual  remark,  which  I  would  not,  for  the  universe, 
have  it  thought  I  applied  to  Governor  Van  Twiller.  It  is  true  he  was  a  man  shut 
up  within  himself,  like  an  oyster,  and  rarely  spoke,  except  in  monosyllables ;  but 
then  it  was  allowed  he  seldom  said  a  foolish  thing.  So  invincible  was  his  gravity 
that  he  was  never  known  to  laugh  or  even  smile  through  the  whole  course  of  a 
long  and  prosperous  life.  Nay,  if  a  joke  were  uttered  in  his  presence,  that  set 
light-minded  hearers  in  a  roar,  it  was  observed  to  throw  him  into  a  state  of  per- 
plexity. Sometimes  he  would  deign  to  inquire  into  the  matter,  and  when,  after 
much  explanation,  the  joke  was  made  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff,  he  would  continue  to 
smoke  his  pipe  in  silence,  and  at  length,  knocking  out  the  ashes,  would  exclaim, 
"  Well,  I  see  nothing  in  all  that  to  laugh  about." 

With  all  his  reflective  habits,  he  never  made  up  his  mind  on  a  subject.  His 
adherents  accounted  for  this  by  the  astonishing  magnitude  of  his  ideas.  He  con- 
ceived every  subject  on  so  grand  a  scale  that  he  had  not  room  in  his  head  to  turn  it 
over  and  examine  both  sides  of  it.  Certain  it  is,  that,  if  any  matter  were  pro- 
pounded to  him  on  which  ordinary  mortals  would  rashly  determine  at  first  glance, 
he  would  put  on  a  vague,  mysterious  look,  shake  his  capacious  head,  smoke  some 
time  in  profound  silence,  and  at  length  observe,  that  "  he  had  his  doubts  about  the 
matter  ; "  which  gained  him  the  reputation  of  a  man  slow  of  belief  and  not  easily 
imposed  upon.  What  is  more,  it  gained  him  a  lasting  name  ;  for  to  this  habit  of 
the  mind  has  been  attributed  his  surname  of  Twiller  ;  which  is  said  to  be  a  corrup- 
tion of  the  original  Twijfler,  or,  in  plain  English,  Doubter.  .  .  . 

The  very  outset  of  the  career  of  this  excellent  magistrate  was  distinguished  by 
an  example  of  legal  acumen,  that  gave  flattering  presage  of  a  wise  and  equitable 
administration.  The  morning  after  he  had  been  installed  in  office,  and  at  the 
moment  that  he  was  making  his  breakfast  from  a  prodigious  earthen  dish,  filled 
with  milk  and  Indian  pudding,  he  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Wandle 
Schoonhoven,  a  very  important  old  burgher  of  New  Amsterdam,  who  complained 
bitterly  of  one  Barent  Bleecker,  inasmuch  as  he  refused  to  come  to  a  settlement  of 
accounts,  seeing  that  there  was  a  heavy  balance  in  favor  of  the  said  Wandle. 


5o  W OUTER     VAN    TWILLER. 

Governor  Van  Twiller,  as  I  have  already  observed,  was  a  man  of  few  words  ;  he 
was  likewise  a  mortal  enemy  to  multiplying  writings  —  or  being  disturbed  at  his 
breakfast.  Having  listened  attentively  to  the  statements  of  Wandle  Schoonhoven, 
giving  an  occasional  grunt,  as  he  shoveled  a  spoonful  of  Indian  pudding  into  his 
mouth  — either  as  a  sign  that  he  relished  the  dish,  or  comprehended  the  story  — 
he  called  unto  him  his  constable,  and  pulling  out  of  his  breeches-pocket  a  huge 
jack-knife,  dispatched  it  after  the  defendant  as  a  summons,  accompanied  by  his  to- 
bacco-box as  a  warrant. 

This  summary  process  was  as  effectual  in  those  simple  days  as  was  the  seal- 
ring  of  the  great  Haroun  Alraschid  among  the  true  believers.  The  two  parties 
being  confronted  before  him,  each  produced  a  book  of  accounts,  written  in  a  lan- 
guage and  character  that  would  have  puzzled  any  but  a  High-Dutch  commentator, 
or  a  learned  decipherer  of  Egyptian  obelisks.  The  sage  Wouter  took  them  one 
after  the  other,  and  having  poised  them  in  his  hands,  and  attentively  counted  over 
the  number  of  leaves,  fell  straightway  into  a  very  great  doubt,  and  smoked  for  half 
an  hour  without  saying  a  word  ;  at  length,  laying  his  finger  beside  his  nose,  and 
shutting  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  just  caught  a  subtle 
idea  by  the  tail,  he  slowly  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  puffed  forth  a  column  of 
tobacco-smoke,  and  with  marvellous  gravity  and  solemnity  pronounced,  that,  hav- 
ing carefully  counted  over  the  leaves  and  weighed  the  books,  it  was  found  that  one 
was  just  as  thick  and  as  heavy  as  the  other  :  therefore,  it  was  the  final  opinion  of 
the  court  that  the  accounts  were  equally  balanced  :  therefore,  Wandle  should  give 
Barent  a  receipt,  and  Barent  should  give  Wandle  a  receipt,  and  the  constable 
should  pay  the  costs. 

This  decision,  being  straightway  made  known,  diffused  general  joy  throughout 
New  Amsterdam,  for  the  people  immediately  perceived  that  they  had  a  very  wise 
and  equitable  magistrate  to  rule  over  them.  But  its  happiest  effect  was,  that  not 
another  lawsuit  took  place  throughout  the  whole  of  his  administration  ;  and  the 
office  of  constable  fell  into  such  decay,  that  there  was  not  one  of  those  losel  scouts 
known  in  the  province  for  many  years.  I  am  the  more  particular  in  dwelling  on 
this  transaction,  not  only  because  I  deem  it  one  of  the  most  sage  and  righteous 
judgments  on  record,  and  well  worthy  the  attention  of  modern  magistrates,  but  be- 
cause it  was  a  miraculous  event  in  the  history  of  the  renowned  Wouter  —  being 
the  only  time  he  was  ever  known  to  come  to  a  decision  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
life. 

WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


LETTER     TO    MRS.     THRALE.  51 


LETTER     TO     MRS.     THRALE. 

SINCE  you  have  written  to  me  with  the  attention  and  tenderness  of  olden  time, 
your  letters  give  me  a  great  part  of  the  pleasure  which  a  life  of  solitude  admits. 
You  will  never  bestow  any  share  of  your  good-will  on  one  who  deserves  better. 
Those  that  have  loved  longest  love  best.  A  sudden  blaze  of  kindness  may  by  a 
single  blast  of  coldness  be  extinguished  ;  but  that  fondness  that  length  of  time  has 
connected  with  many  circumstances  and  occasions,  though  it  may  for  a  while  be 
depressed  by  disgust  or  resentment,  with  or  without  a  cause,  is  hourly  revived  by 
accidental  recollection.  To  those  that  have  lived  long  together,  every  thing  heard 
and  every  thing  seen  recalls  some  pleasure  communicated  or  some  benefit  con- 
ferred, some  petty  quarrel  or  some  slight  endearment  Esteem  of  great  powers,  or 
amiable  qualities  newly  discovered,  may  embroider  a  day  or  a  week,  but  a  friend- 
ship of  twenty  years  is  interwoven  with  the  texture  of  life.  A  friend  may  be  often 
found  and  lost  ;  but  an  old  friend  never  can  be  found,  and  nature  has  provided  that 
he  cannot  easily  be  lost.  .  .  . 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


THE     DOMINIE     AND     MEG     MERRILIES. 

THE  result  of  these  cogitations  was  a  resolution  to  go  and  visit  the  scene  of  the 
tragedy  at  Warroch  Point,  where  he  had  not  been  for  many  years  —  not,  indeed, 
since  the  fatal  accident  had  happened.  The  walk  was  a  long  one,  for  the  Point  of 
Warroch  lay  on  the  farther  side  of  the  Ellangowan  property,  which  was  interposed 
between  it  and  Woodbourne.  Besides,  the  Dominie  went  astray  more  than  once, 
and  met  with  brooks  swollen  into  torrents  by  the  melting  of  the  snow,  where  he, 
honest  man,  had  only  the  summer  recollection  of  little  trickling  rills. 

At  length,  however,  he  reached  the  woods  which  he  had  made  the  object  of  his 
excursion,  and  traversed  them  with  care,  muddling  his  disturbed  brains  with  vague 
efforts  to  recall  every  circumstance  of  the  catastrophe.  It  will  readily  be  supposed 
that  the  influence  of  local  situation  and  association  was  inadequate  to  produce  con- 
clusions different  from  those  which  he  had  formed  under  the  immediate  pressure  of 
the  occurrences  themselves.  "  With  many  a  weary  sigh,  therefore,  and  many  a 
groan,"  the  poor  Dominie  returned  from  his  hopeless  pilgrimage,  and  weariedly 
plodded  his  way  towards  Woodbourne,  debating  at  times  in  his  altered  mind  a 
question  which  was  forced  upon  him  by  the  cravings  of  an  appetite  rather  of  the 
keenest,  namely,  whether  he  had  breakfasted  that  morning  or  no.  It  was  in  this 
twilight  humor,  now  thinking  of  the  loss  of  the  child,  then  involuntarily  compelled 
to  meditate  upon  the  somewhat  incongruous  subject  of  hung-beef,  rolls,  and  butter, 


THE    DOMINIE    AND    MEG    MERRILIES. 


that  his  route,  which  was  different  from  that  which  he  had  taken  in  the  morning, 
conducted  him  past  the  small  ruined  tower,  or  rather  vestige  of  a  tower,  called  by 
the  country  people  the  Kaim  of  Derncleugh. 

The  reader  may  recollect  the  description  of  this  ruin  in  the  twenty-seventh 
chapter  of  this  narrative,  as  the  vault  in  which  young  Bertram,  under  the  auspices 
of  Meg  Merrilies,  witnessed  the  death  of  Hatteraick's  lieutenant.  The  tradition 
of  the  country  added  ghostly  terrors  to  the  natural  awe  inspired  by  the  situation  of 
this  place  —  which  terrors  the  gypsies,  who  so  long  inhabited  the  vicinity,  had 

probably  invented,  or  at  least  pro- 
pagated, for  their  own  advantage.  It 
was  said,  that  during  the  times  of  the 
Galwegian  independence,  one  Hanlon 
Mac-Dingawaie,  brother  to  the  reign- 
ing chief,  Knarth  Mac-Dingawaie, 
murdered  his  brother  and  sovereign, 
in  order  to  usurp  the  principality 
from  his  infant  nephew,  and  that 
being  pursued  for  vengeance  by  the 
faithful  allies  and  retainers  of  the 
house,  who  espoused  the  cause  of  the 
lawful  heir,  he  was  compelled  to 
retreat  with  a  few  followers  whom  he 
had  involved  in  his  crime,  to  this 
impregnable  tower  called  the  Kaim 
of  Derncleugh,  where  he  defended 
himself  until  nearly  reduced  by  fam- 
ine, when,  setting  fire  to  the  place, 
he  and  the  small  remaining  garrison 
desperately  perished  by  their  own 
swords,  rather  than  fall  into  the 
hands  of  their  exasperated  enemies. 
This  tragedy,  which,  considering  the 
wild  times  wherein  it  was  placed, 
might  have  some  foundation  in  truth, 
was  larded  with  many  legends  of 

superstition  and  diablerie,  so  that  most  of  the  peasants  of  the  neighborhood,  if 
benighted,  would  rather  have  chosen  to  make  a  considerable  circuit  than  pass  these 
haunted  walls.  The  lights,  often  seen  around  the  tower  when  used  as  the  rendez- 
vous of  the  lawless  characters  by  whom  it  was  occasionally  frequented,  were 
accounted  for,  under  authority  of  these  tales  of  witchery,  in  a  manner  at  once 
convenient  for  the  private  parties  concerned,  and  satisfactory  to  the  public. 

Now  it  must  be  confessed  that  our  friend  Sampson,  although  a  profound  scholar 
and  mathematician,  had  not  travelled  so  far  in  philosophy  as  to  doubt  the  reality  of 
witchcrait  or  apparitions.  Born  indeed  at  a  time  when  a  doubt  in  the  existence  of 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


THE    DOMINIE    AND    MEG    MERRILIES.  53 

witches  was  interpreted  as  equivalent  to  a  justification  of  their  infernal  practices,  a 
belief  of  such  legends  had  been  impressed  upon  the  Dominie  as  an  article  indivisible 
from  his  religious  faith  ;  and  perhaps  it  would  have  been  equally  difficult  to  have 
induced  him  to  doubt  the  one  as  the  other.  With  these  feelings,  and  in  a  thick 
misty  day,  which  was  already  drawing  to  its  close,  Dominie  Sampson  did  not  pass 
the  Kaim  of  Derncleugh  without  some  feelings  of  tacit  horror. 

What,  then,  was  his  astonishment,  when,  on  passing  the  door  —  that  door  which 
was  supposed  to  have  been  placed  there  by  one  of  the  latter  Lairds  of  Ellangowan 
to  prevent  presumptuous  strangers  from  incurring  the  dangers  of  the  haunted  vault  — 
that  door  supposed  to  be  always  locked,  and  the  key  of  which  was  popularly  said  to 
be  deposited  with  the  presbytery  —  that  door,  that  very  door,  opened  suddenly, 
and  the  figure  of  Meg  Merrilies,  well  known,  though  not  seen  for  many  a  revolv- 
ing year,  was  placed  at  once  before  the  eyes  of  the  startled  Dominie  !  She  stood 
immediately  before  him  in  the  footpath,  confronting  him  so  absolutely,  that  he 
could  not  avoid  her  except  by  fairly  turning  back,  which  his  manhood  prevented 
him  from  thinking  of. 

"  I  kenn'd  ye  wad  be  here,"  she  said,  with  her  harsh  and  hollow  voice  :  "  I  ken 
wha  ye  seek  ;  but  ye  maun  do  my  bidding." 

"Get  thee  behind  me  !  "  said  the  alarmed  Dominie  —  "Avoid  ye  !  —  Conjuro  te, 
scelestissima  —  nequissima  —  spurcissima  —  iniquissima  —  atque  miserrima  —  con- 
juro  te  !  !  !  " 

Meg  stood  her  ground  against  this  tremendous  volley  of  superlatives,  which 
Sampson  awked  up  from  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  and  hurled  at  her  in  thunder. 
"  Is  the  carl  daft,"  she  said,  "  wi  his  glamor  ?  " 

"Conjuro"  continued  the    Dominie,  "abjuro,  contestor,  atque  viriliter  impero 


"  What  in  the  name  of  Sathan,  are  ye  feared  for,  wi'  your  French  gibberish, 
that  would  make  a  dog  sick  ?  Listen,  ye  stickit  stibbler,  to  what  I  tell  ye,  or  ye 
sail  rue  it  while  there's  a  limb  o'  ye  hings  to  anither  !  Tell  Colonel  Mannering 
that  I  ken  he's  seeking  me.  He  kens,  and  I  ken,  that  the  blood  will  be  wiped  out, 
and  the  lost  will  be  found, 

And  Bertram's  right  and  Bertram's  might 
Shall  meet  on  Ellangowan  height. 

Hae,  there's  a  letter  to  him  ;  I  was  gaun  to  send  it  in  another  way.     I  canna  write 

mysell  ;  but  I  hae  them  that  will  baith  write  and  read,  and  ride  and  rin   for  me. 

Tell  him  the  time's  coming  now,  and  the  weird's  dreed,  and  the  wheel's  turning. 

Bid  him  look  at  the  stars  as  he  has  looked  at   them   before.     Will  ye  mind  a' 

this  ?  " 

"  Assuredly,"  said  the  Dominie,  "  I  am  dubious  —  for,  woman,  I  am  perturbed 

at  thy  words,  and  my  flesh  quakes  to  hear  thee." 

"They'll  do  you  nae  ill  though,  and  may  be  muckle  gude." 

"  Avoid  ye  !     I  desire  no  good  that  comes  by  unlawful  means." 


54  THE    DOMINIE    AND    MEG    MERRILIES. 

"  Fule-body  that  thou  art !  "  said  Meg,  stepping  up  to  him  with  a  frown  of  indig- 
nation that  made  her  dark  eyes  flash  like  lamps  from  under  her  bent  brows  — 
"  Fule-body  !  if  I  meant  ye  wrang,  couldna  I  clod  ye  ower  that  craig,  and  wad  man 
ken  how  ye  earn  by  your  end  mair  than  Frank  Kennedy  ?  Hear  ye  that,  ye 
worricow  ?  " 

"  In  the  name  of  all  that  is  good,"  said  the  Dominie,  recoiling,  and  pointing  his 
long  pewter-headed  walking-cane  like  a  javelin  at  the  supposed  sorceress,  — "in  the 
name  of  all  that  is  good,  bide  off  hands  !  I  will  not  be  handled  —  woman,  stand 
off,  upon  thine  own  proper  peril!  —  desist,  I  say  —  I  am  strong  —  lo,  I  will  resist!" 
Here  his  speech  was  cut  short  ;  for  Meg,  armed  with  supernatural  strength  (as  the 
Dominie  asserted),  broke  in  upon  his  guard,  put  by  a  thrust  which  he  made  at  her 
with  his  cane,  and  lifted  him  into  the  vault,  "  as  easily,"  said  he,  "  as  I  could  sway 
a  Kitchen's  Atlas." 

"  Sit  down  there,"  she  said,  pushing  the  half-throttled  preacher  with  some  vio- 
lence against  a  broken  chair  —  "  sit  down  there,  and  gather  your  wind  and  your 
senses,  ye  black  barrow-tram  o'  the  kirk  that  ye  are!  Are  ye  fou  or  fasting  ?  " 

"  Fasting  —  from  all  but  sin,"  answered  the  Dominie,  who,  recovering  his  voice, 
and  finding  his  exorcisms  only  served  to  exasperate  the  intractable  sorceress, 
thought  it  best  to  affect  complaisance  and  submission,  inwardly  conning  over,  how- 
ever, the  wholesome  conjurations  which  he  durst  no  longer  utter  aloud.  But  as  the 
Dominie's  brain  was  by  no  means  equal  to  carry  on  two  trains  of  ideas  at  the  same 
time,  a  word  or  two  of  his  mental  exercise  sometimes  escaped,  and  mingled  with 
his  uttered  speech  in  a  manner  ludicrous  enough,  especially  as  the  poor  man  shrunk 
himself  together  after  every  escape  of  the  kind,  from  terror  of  the  effect  it  might 
produce  upon  the  irritable  feelings  of  the  witch. 

Meg,  in  the  meanwhile,  went  to  a  great  black  cauldron  that  was  boiling  on  a 
fire  on  the  floor,  and  lifting  the  lid,  an  odor  was  diffused  through  the  vault  which, 
if  the  vapors  of  a  witch's  cauldron  could  in  aught  be  trusted,  promised  better 
things  than  the  hell-broth  which  such  vessels  are  usually  supposed  to  contain.  It 
was  in  fact  the  savor  of  a  goodly  stew,  composed  of  fowls,  hares,  partridges,  and 
moorgame,  boiled  in  a  large  mess  with  potatoes,  onions,  and  leeks,  and  from  the 
size  of  the  cauldron,  appeared  to  be  prepared  for  half  a  dozen  people  at  least. 

"  So  ye  hae  eat  naething  a'  day  ?"  said  Meg,  heaving  a  large  portion  of  this  mess 
into  a  brown  dish,  and  strewing  it  savorily  with  salt  and  pepper.* 

"Nothing,"  answered  the  Dominie  — " scelestissima ! —  that  is — gudewife." 

"Hae,  then,"  said  she,  placing  the  dish  before  him,  "there's  what  will  warm 
your  heart." 

"  I  do  not  hunger —  malefica  —  that  is  to  say,  Mrs.  Merrilies  !  "  for  he  said  unto 
himself,  "the  savor  is  sweet,  but  it  hath  been  cooked  by  a  Canidia  or  an  Ericthoe." 

"  If  ye  dinna  eat  instantly,  and  put  some  saul  in  ye,  by  the  bread  and  the  salt, 
I'll  put  it  down  your  throat  wi'  the  cutty  spoon,  scalding  as  it  is,  and  whether  ye 
will  or  no.  Gape,  sinner,  and  swallow !  " 

Sampson,  afraid  of  eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  frog,  tigers'  chaudrons,  and  so  forth, 

*  Gypsy  Cookery. 


THE    DOMINIE    AND    MEG    MERRILIES. 


55 


had  determined  not  to  venture ;  but  the  smell  of  the  stew  was  fast  melting  his  ob- 
stinacy, which  flowed  from  his  chops,  as  it  were,  in  streams  of  water,  and  the 
witch's  threats  decided  him  to  feed.  Hunger  and  fear  are  excellent  casuists. 

"  Saul,"  said  Hunger,  "feasted  with  the  witch  of  Endor."  "  And,"  quoth  Fear, 
"the  salt  which  she  sprinkled  upon  the  food  showeth  plainly  it  is  not  a  necro- 
mantic banquet,  in  which  that  seasoning  never  occurs."  "And  besides,"  says 
Hunger,  after  the  first  spoonful,  "  it  is  savory  and  refreshing  viands." 

"  So  ye  like  the  meat  ? "  said  the  hostess. 

"Yea,"  answered  the  Dominie,  "and  I  give  thee  thanks  —  sceleratissima  !  — 
which  means  Mrs.  Margaret." 

'!  Aweel,  eat  your  fill ;  but  an  ye  kenn'd  how  it  was  gotten,  ye  maybe  wadna 
like  it  sae  weel."  Sampson's  spoon  dropped  in  the  act  of  conveying  its  load  to 
his  mouth.  "There's  been  mony  a  moonlight  watch  to  bring  a'  that  trade  the- 
gither,"  continued  Meg,  "  the  folk  that  are  to  eat  that  dinner  thought  little  o'  your 
game-laws." 

"Is  that  all?"  thought  Sampson,  resuming  his  spoon,  and  shoveling  away  man- 
fully ;  "  I  will  not  lack  my  food  upon  that  argument." 

"  Now,  ye  maun  tak  a  dram." 

"  I  will,"  quoth  Sampson  —  "conjure  te — that  is,  I  thank  you  heartily,"  for  he 
thought  to  himself,  in  for  a  penny  in  for  a  pound  ;  and  he  fairly  drank  the  witch's 
health  in  a  cupful  of  brandy.  When  he  had  put  this  cope-stone  upon  Meg's  good 
cheer,  he  felt,  as  he  said,  mightily  elevated,  and  afraid  of  no  evil  which  could  be- 
fall unto  him. 

"  Will  ye  remember  my  errand  now  ? "  said  Meg  Merrilies.  "  I  ken  by  the 
cast  o'  your  ee  that  ye're  anither  man  than  when  you  cam  in." 

"  I  will,  Mrs.  Margaret,"  repeated  Sampson  stoutly  ;  "  I  will  deliver  unto  him 
the  sealed  yepistle,  and  will  add  what  you  please  to  send  by  word  of  mouth." 

"Then  I'll  make  it  short,"  says  Meg.  "Tell  him  to  look  at  the  stars  without 
fail  this  night,  and  to  do  what  I  desire  him  in  that  letter,  as  he  would  wish. 

That  Bertram's  right  and  Bertram's  might 
Should  meet  on  Ellangowan  height. 

I  have  seen  him  twice  when  he  saw  na  me  ;  I  ken  when  he  was  in  this  country 
first,  and  I  ken  what's  brought  him  back  again.  Up,  an'  to  the  gate  !  ye're  ower 
lang  here  —  follow  me." 

Sampson  followed  the  sibyl  accordingly,  who  guided  him  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  through  the  woods,  by  a  shorter  cut  than  he  could  have  found  for  himself  ; 
they  then  entered  upon  the  common,  Meg  still  marching  before  him  at  a  great 
pace,  until  she  gained  the  top  of  a  small  hillock  which  overhung  the  road. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "stand  still  here.  Look  how  the  setting  sun  breaks  through 
yon  cloud  that's  been  darkening  the  lift  a'  day.  See  where  the  first  stream  o'  light 
fa's  —  it's  upon  Donagild's  round  tower — the  auldest  tower  in  the  Castle  o'  Ellan- 
gowan —  that's  no  for  naething  ! —  See  as  it's  glooming  to  seaward  abune  yon  sloop 


56  THE    STORY    OF    "WAVERLEY." 

in  the  bay  —  that's  no  for  naething  neither.  Here  I  stood  on  this  very  spot," 
said  she,  drawing  herself  up  so  as  not  to  lose  one  hair-breadth  of  her  uncommon 
height,  and  stretching  out  her  long  sinewy  arm  and  clenched  hand  — "here  I  stood 
when  I  tauld  the  last  Laird  o'  Ellangowan  what  was  coming  on  his  house  ;  and  did 
that  fa'  to  the  ground  ?  Na,  it  hit  even  ower  sair !  And  here,  where  I  brake  the 
wand  of  peace  ower  him  —  here  I  stand  again  — to  bid  God  bless  and  prosper  the 
just  heir  of  Ellangowan  that  will  sune  be  brought  to  his  ain  ;  and  the  best  laird  he 
shall  be  that  Ellangowan  has  seen  for  three  hundred  years.  I'll  no  live  to  see  it, 
maybe  ;  but  there  will  be  mony  a  blythe  ee  see  it  though  mine  be  closed.  And 
now,  Abel  Sampson,  as  ever  ye  lo'ed  the  house  of  Ellangowan,  away  wi'  my  mes- 
sage to  the  English  Colonel,  as  if  life  and  death  were  upon  your  haste ! " 

So,  saying,  she  turned  suddenly  from  the  amazed  Dominie,  and  regained  with 
swift  and  long  strides  the  shelter  of  the  wood  from  which  she  had  issued,  at  the 
point  where  it  most  encroached  upon  the  common.  Sampson  gazed  after  her  for  a 
moment  in  utter  astonishment,  and  then  obeyed  her  directions,  hurrying  to  Wood- 
bourne  at  a  pace  very  unusual  for  him,  exclaiming  three  times,  Prodigious  !  pro- 
digious !  pro-di-gi-ous  !  " 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


THE     STORY     OF     "WAVERLEY.' 

.  .  .  Now,  to  go  from  one  important  subject  to  another,  I  must  account  for 
my  own  laziness,  which  I  do  by  referring  you  to  a  small  anonymous  sort  of  a  novel, 
in  three  volumes  —  Waverley  —  which  you  will  receive  by  the  mail  of  this  day.  It 
was  a  very  old  attempt  of  mine  to  embody  some  traits  of  those  characters  and  man- 
ners peculiar  to  Scotland,  the  last  remnants  of  which  vanished  during  my  own 
youth,  so*  that  few  or  no  traces  now  remain.  I  had  written  great  part  of  the  first 
volume,  and  sketched  other  passages,  when  I  mislaid  the  MS.,  and  only  found  it  by 
the  merest  accident  as  I  was  rummaging  the  drawers  of  an  old  cabinet  ;  and  I  took 
the  fancy  of  finishing  it,  which  I  did  so  fast  that  the  last  two  volumes  were  written 
in  three  weeks.  I  had  a  great  deal  of  fun  in  the  accomplishment  of  this  task, 
though  I  do  not  expect  that  it  will  be  popular  in  the  south,  as  much  of  the  humor, 
if  there  be  any,  is  local,  and  some  of  it  even  professional.  You,  however,  who  are 
an  adopted  Scotchman,  will  find  some  amusement  in  it.  It  has  made  a  very  strong 
impression  here,  and  the  good  people  of  Edinburgh  are  busied  in  tracing  the  author, 
and  in  finding  out  originals  for  the  portraits  it  contains.  In  the  first  case,  they  will 
probably  find  it  difficult  to  convict  the  guilty  author,  although  he  is  far  from  escap- 
ing suspicion.  Jeffrey  has  offered  to  make  oath  that  it  is  mine,  and  another  great 
critic  has  tendered  his  affidavit,  ex  contrario  ;  so  that  these  authorities  have  divided 
the  gude  town.  However,  the  thing  has  succeeded  very  well,  and  is  thought  highly 
of.  I  don't  know  if  it  has  got  to  London  yet.  I  intend  to  maintain  my  incognito, 
Let  me  know  your  opinion  about  it.  ... 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


THE     TEMPERANCE    PREACHER.  57 


THE  TEMPERANCE  PREACHER. 

THE  Gospel  temperance  meetings  were  still  in  the  full  tide  of  power,  when  Mr. 
Remington  left  them  one  evening  in  charge  of  others,  and  went  to  answer  a  call 
to  another  part  of  the  city,  where  there  was  a  political  rally. 

"  Vote  as  you  pray  "  might  almost  have  been  said  to  be  the  text  of  the  sermon 
he  preached.  A  strong,  keen,  logical  sermon  addressed  to  keen-brained  men, 
voters,  every  one  of  them  ;  men  who  listened  intently,  and  weighed  carefully  the 
problems  which  he  presented  before  them,  and  the  facts  and  figures  with  which 
he  clinched  his  arguments. 

"  You  did  some  good  work  for  the  cause  to-night,  Mr.  Remington,"  said  the 
man  who  had  called  for  him,  when  his  twenty  minutes'  speech  was  concluded. 
"  That  speech  will  give  us  a  dozen  more  votes  at  least,  and  we  are  getting  where  a 
dozen  more  votes  will  tell.  We  are  gaining  on  the  enemy,  Mr.  Remington,  as 
sure  as  the  world.  If  we  could  only  have  all  the  church  members  with  us,  how 
quickly  we  would  sweep  this  curse  out  of  the  land  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Remington,  and  he  could  not  forbear  a  sigh.  Even  in  his  own 
beloved  church  there  were  men  who  loved  him,  and  prayed  with  and  for  him,  and 
who  worked  earnestly  in  the  Gospel  temperance  meetings,  and  were  honest  to  the 
heart's  core,  he  knew,  yet  who  would  in  a  few  days  go  to  the  polls  and  array 
themselves  against  him,  and  on  the  side  of  the  saloons  which  he  and  they  were 
fighting. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  problem  of  the  centuries  how  to  under- 
stand the  honest  Christian  people  of  our  country  on  this  question.  There  is  noth- 
ing like  it ;  we  see  eye  to  eye  on  every  other  moral  question  under  the  sun.  I  do 
not  understand  it  ;  the  utmost  that  I  can  do  is  to  work  and  pray  and  wait." 

"I  know  precisely  how  you  feel,"  answered  his  friend.  "I  have  a  brother,  as 
good  a  man  as  ever  lived,  and  as  square  as  he  can  be  on  all  other  questions,  as  you 
say  ;  but  when  it  comes  to  this,  there  isn't  a  bat  in  the  world  as  blind  as  he.  It  is 
unaccountable  to  me,  except  on  the  principle  that  the  'god  of  this  world  has  blinded 
his  eyes.'  When  I  get  to  thinking  about  it,  and  get  all  wrought  up,  as  you  have 
wrought  me  up  to-night,  Mr.  Remington,  by  your  speech,  the  only  language  in 
which  I  can  express  myself  is  the  old  cry,  '  O,  Lord  !  how  long !  " 

"PANSY  "  (Mrs  G.  R.  Alden). 


58  GARDEN    ETHICS. 


GARDEN     ETHICS. 

I  BELIEVE  that  I  have  found,  if  not  original  sin,  at  least  vegetable  total  depravity 
in  my  garden  ;  and  it  was  there  before  I  went  into  it.  It  is  the  bunch-  or  joint- 
or  snake-grass — whatever  it  is  called.  As  I  do  not  know  the  names  of  all  the 
weeds  and  plants,  I  have  to  do  as  Adam  did  in  his  garden  —  name  things  as  I  find 
them. 

This  grass  has  a  slender,  beautiful  stalk  :  and  when  you  cut  it  down,  or  pull  up 
a  long  root  of  it,  you  fancy  it  is  got  rid  of  ;  but  in  a  day  or  two  it  will  come  up  in 
the  same  spot  in  half  a  dozen  vigorous  blades.  Cutting  down  and  pulling  up  is  what 
it  thrives  on.  Extermination  rather  helps  it.  If  you  follow  a  slender  white  root, 
it  will  be  found  to  run  under  the  ground  until  it  meets  another  slender  white  root  ; 
and  you  will  soon  unearth  a  network  of  them,  with  a  knot  somewhere,  sending  out 
dozens  of  sharp-pointed,  healthy  shoots,  every  joint  prepared  to  be  an  independent 
life  and  plant.  The  only  way  to  deal  with  it  is  to  take  one  part  hoe  and  two  parts 
fingers,  and  carefully  dig  it  out,  not  leaving  a  joint  anywhere.  It  will  take  a  little 
time,  say  all  summer,  to  dig  out  thoroughly  a  small  patch  ;  but  if  you  once  dig  it 
out,  and  keep  it  out,  you  will  have  no  further  trouble. 

I  have  said  it  was  total  depravity.  Here  it  is.  If  you  attempt  to  pull  up  and 
root  out  sin  in  you,  which  shows  on  the  surface  —  if  it  does  not  show,  you  do  not 
care  for  it  —  you  may  have  noticed  how  it  runs  into  an  interior  network  of  sins, 
and  an  ever-sprouting  branch  of  these  roots  somewhere  ;  and  that  you  cannot  pull 
out  one  without  making  a  general  internal  disturbance,  and  rooting  up  your  whole 
being.  I  suppose  it  is  less  trouble  to  quietly  cut  them  off  at  the  top  — say  once  a 
week,  on  Sunday,  when  you  put  on  your  religious  clothes  and  face  —  so  that  no  one 
will  see  them,  and  not  try  to  eradicate  the  network  within. 

Remark.  —  This  moral  vegetable  figure  is  at  the  service  of  any  clergyman  who 
will  have  the  manliness  to  come  forward  and  help  me  at  a  day's  hoeing  on  my 
potatoes.  None  but  the  orthodox  need  apply. 

I,  however,  believe  in  the  intellectual,  if  not  the  moral,  qualities  of  vegetables, 
and  especially  weeds.  There  was  a  worthless  vine  that  (or  who)  started  up  about 
midway  between  a  grape-trellis  and  a  row  of  bean-poles,  some  three  feet  from  each, 
but  a  little  nearer  the  trellis  When  it  came  out  of  the  ground,  it  looked  around  to 
see  what  it  should  do.  The  trellis  was  already  occupied.  The  bean-pole  was 
empty.  There  was  evidently  a  little  the  best  chance  of  light,  air,  and  sole  proprie- 
torship on  the  pole.  And  the  vine  started  for  the  pole,  and  began  to  climb  it  with 
determination.  Here  was  as  distinct  an  act  of  choice,  of  reason,  as  a  boy  exercises 
when  he  goes  into  a  forest,  and,  looking  about,  decides  which  tree  he  will  climb. 
And,  besides,  how  did  the  vine  know  enough  to  travel  in  exactly  the  right  direction, 
three  feet,  to  find  what  it  wanted  ?  This  is  intellect.  The  weeds,  on  the  other 
hand,  have  hateful  moral  qualities.  To  cut  down  a  weed  is,  therefore,  to  do  a  moral 
action.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  destroying  a  sin.  My  hoe  becomes  an  instrument  of 


LITTLE  PEARL  IN  THE  FOREST. 


59 


retributive  justice.  I  am  an  apostle  of  nature.  This  view  of  the  matter  lends  a 
dignity  to  the  art  of  hoeing  which  nothing  else  does,  and  lifts  it  into  the  region  of 
ethics.  Hoeing  becomes,  not  a  pastime,  but  a  duty.  And  you  get  to  regard  it  so,  as 
the  days  and  the  weeds  lengthen. 

Observation,  — Nevertheless,  what  a  man  needs  in  gardening  is  a  cast-iron  back, 
with  a  hinge  in  it.  The  hoe  is  an  ingenious  instrument,  calculated  to  call  out  a 
great  deal  of  strength  at  a  great  disadvantage. 

The  striped  bug  has  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year.  He  is  a  moral  double- 
ender,  iron-clad  at  that.  He  is  unpleasant  in  two  ways.  He  burrows  in  the  ground 
so  that  you  cannot  find  him,  and  he  flies  away  so  that  you  cannot  catch  him.  He 
is  rather  handsome,  as  bugs  go,  but  utterly  dastardly,  in  that  he  gnaws  the  stem  of 
the  plant  close  to  the  ground,  and  ruins  it  without  any  apparent  advantage  to  him- 
self. I  find  him  on  the  hills  of  cucumbers  (perhaps  it  will  be  a  cholera-year,  and 
we  shall  not  want  any),  the  squashes  (small  loss),  and  the  melons  (which  never 
ripen).  The  best  way  to  deal  with  the  striped  bug  is  to  sit  down  by  the  hills  and 
patiently  watch  for  him.  If  you  are  spry,  you  can  annoy  him.  This,  however, 
takes  time.  It  takes  all  day  and  part  of  the  night.  For  he  flieth  in  the  darkness, 
and  wasteth  at  noon-day.  If  you  get  up  before  the  dew  is  off  the  plants,  —  it  goes 
off  very  early,  —  you  can  sprinkle  soot  on  the  plant  (soot  is  my  panacea  :  if  I  can 
get  the  disease  of  a  plant  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  soot,  I  am  all  right)  ;  and  soot 
is  unpleasant  to  the  bug.  But  the  best  thing  to  do  is  set  a  toad  to  catch  the  bugs. 
The  toad  at  once  establishes  the  most  intimate  relations  with  the  bug.  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  see  such  unity  among  the  lower  animals.  The  difficulty  is  to  make  the 
toad  stay  and  watch  the  hill.  If  you  know  your  toad,  it  is  all  right.  If  you  do  not, 
you  must  build  a  tight  fence  around  the  plants,  which  the  toad  cannot  jump  over. 
This,  however,  introduces  a  new  element.  I  find  that  I  have  a  zoological  garden  on 
my  hands.  It  is  an  unexpected  result  of  my  little  enterprise,  which  never  aspired 
to  the  completeness  of  the  Paris  "Jardin  des  Plantes." 

CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 


LITTLE     PEARL     IN     THE     FOREST. 

PEARL  had  not  found  the  hour  pass  wearisomely,  while  her  mother  sat  talking 
with  the  clergyman.  The  great  black  forest  —  stern  as  it  showed  itself  to  those 
who  brought  the  guilt  and  troubles  of  the  world  into  its  bosom  —  became  the  play- 
mate of  the  lonely  infant,  as  well  as  it  knew  how.  Somber  as  it  was,  it  put  on  the 
kindliest  of  its  moods  to  welcome  her.  It  offered  her  the  partridge-berries,  the 
growth  of  the  preceding  autumn,  but  ripening  only  in  the  spring,  and  now  red  as 
drops  of  blood  upon  the  withered  leaves.  These  Pearl  gathered,  and  was  pleased 
with  their  wild  flavor.  The  small  denizens  of  the  wilderness  hardly  took  pains  to 
move  out  of  her  path.  A  partridge,  indeed,  with  a  brood  of  ten  behind  her,  ran 


6o 


LITTLE    PEARL     IN    THE     FOREST. 


forward  threateningly,  but  soon  repented  of  her  fierceness,  and  clucked  to  her  young 
ones  not  to  be  afraid.  A  pigeon,  alone  on  an  old  branch,  allowed  Pearl  to  come  be- 
neath, and  uttered  a  sound  as  much  of  greeting  as  alarm.  A  squirrel,  from  the 
lofty  depths  of  his  domestic  tree,  chattered  either  in  anger  or  merriment,  — for  a 
squirrel  is  such  a  choleric  and  humorous  little  personage,  that  it  is  hard  to  distin- 
guish between  his  moods,  —  so  he  chattered  at  the  child,  and  flung  down  a  nut 
upon  her  head.  It  was  a  last  year's  nut,  and  already  gnawed  by  his  sharp  tooth. 
A  fox,  startled  from  his  sleep  by  her  light  footstep  on  the  leaves,  looked  inquisi- 
tively at  Pearl,  as  doubting  whether  it  were  better  to  steal  off,  or  renew  his  nap  on 
the  same  spot.  A  wolf,  it  is  said,  —  but  here  the  tale  has  surely  lapsed  into  the 
improbable,  — came  up,  and  smelt  of  Pearl's  robe,  and  offered  his  savage  head  to  be 
patted  by  her  hand.  The  truth  seemed  to  be,  however,  that  the  mother-forest,  and 
these  wild  things  which  it  nourished,  all  recognized  a  kindred  wildness  in  a  human 
child.  And  she  was  gentler  here  than  in  the  quarry-margined  streets  of  the  settle- 
ment, or  in  her  mother's  cottage.  The  flowers  appeared  to  know  it ;  and  one  and 
another  whispered  as  she  passed,  "  Adorn  thyself  with  me  !  thou  beautiful  child, 
adorn  thyself  with  me!"  —  and,  to  please  them,  Pearl  gathered  the  violets,  and 
anemones,  and  columbines,  and  some  twigs  of  the  freshest  green,  which  the  old 
trees  held  down  before  her  eyes.  With  these  she  decorated  her  hair,  and  her 
young  waist,  and  became  a  nymph-child,  or  an  infant  dryad,  or  whatever  else  was 
in  closest  sympathy  with  the  antique  wood.  In  such  guise  had  Pearl  adorned  her- 
self, when  she  heard  her  mother's  voice,  and  came  slowly  back. 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


HAWTHORNE'S  STUDY  AT  "WAYSIDE." 


FOOTPRINTS   OF  ANGELS. 


61 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


FOOTPRINTS     OF     ANGELS. 


AND  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm.  A  little  chapel,  whose  door 
stood  open,  seemed  to  invite  Flemming  to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful  coolness. 
He  went  in.  There  was  no  one  there.  The  walls  were  covered  with  paintings  and 
sculpture  of  the  rudest  kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral  tablets.  There  was  nothing 
there  to  move  the  heart  to  devotion  ;  but  in  that  hour  the  heart  of  Flemming  was 
weak  —  weak  as  a  child's.  He  bowed  his  stubborn  knees,  and  wept.  And,  O, 
how  many  disappointed  hopes,  how  many  bitter  recollections,  how  much  of  wounded 
pride  and  unrequited  love,  were  in  those  tears  through  which  he  read,  on  a  marble 
tablet  in  the  chapel  wall  opposite,  this  singular  inscription  :  — 

"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.     It  comes  not  back.     Wisely  improve  the 


62  FOOTPRINTS     OF    ANGELS. 

Present.     It  is  thine.     Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future,  without  fear,  and 
with  a  manly  heart." 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of  that  grave  had  opened  his  lips  of 
dust,  and  spoken  to  him  the  words  of  consolation  which  his  soul  needed,  and  which 
no  friend  had  yet  spoken.  In  a  moment  the  anguish  of  his  thoughts  was  still. 
The  stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  door  of  his  heart  ;  death  was  no  longer  there, 
but  an  angel  clothed  in  white.  He  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  were  no  more  bleared 
with  tears  ;  and,  looking  into  the  bright  morning  heaven,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  will  be  strong  !  " 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  painful  longings  to  behold  once  more 
the  faces  of  their  departed  friends  ;  and  as  they  gaze  upon  them,  lying  there  so 
peacefully  with  the  semblance  that  they  wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 
touches  them,  and  the  features  crumble  and  fall  together,  and  are  but  dust.  So 
did  his  soul  then  descend  for  the  last  time  unto  the  great  tomb  of  the  Past,  with 
painful  longings  to  behold  once  more  the  dear  faces  of  those  he  had  loved ;  and  the 
sweet  breath  of  heaven  touched  them,  and  they  would  not  stay,  but  crumbled  away 
and  perished  as  he  gazed.  They,  too,  were  dust.  And  thus,  far-sounding,  he  heard 
the  gate  of  the  Past  shut  behind  him,  as  the  divine  poet  did  the  gate  of  Paradise, 
when  the  angel  pointed  him  the  way  up  the  Holy  Mountain  ;  and  to  him  likewise 
was  it  forbidden  to  look  back. 

In  the  life  of  every  man  there  are  sudden  transitions  of  feeling,  which  seem  al- 
most miraculous.  At  once,  as  if  some  magician  had  touched  the  heavens  and  the 
earth,  the  dark  clouds  melt  into  the  air,  the  wind  falls,  and  serenity  succeeds  the 
storm.  The  causes  which  produce  these  sudden  changes  may  have  been  long  at 
work  within  us  ;  but  the  changes  themselves  are  instantaneous,  and  apparently 
without  sufficient  cause.  It  was  so  with  Flemming  ;  and  from  that  hour  forth  he 
resolved  that  he  would  no  longer  veer  with  every  shifting  wind  of  circumstance,  — 
no  longer  be  a  child's  plaything  in  the  hands  of  Fate,  which  we  ourselves  do  make 
or  mar.  He  resolved  henceforward  not  to  lean  on  others  ;  but  to  walk  self-confi- 
dent and  self-possessed,  —  no  longer  to  waste  his  years  in  vain  regrets,  nor  wait  the 
fulfillment  of  boundless  hopes  and  indiscreet  desires  ;  but  to  live  in  the  Present 
wisely,  alike  forgetful  of  the  Past,  and  careless  of  what  the  mysterious  Future 
might  bring.  And  from  that  moment  he  was  calm  and  strong  ;  he  was  reconciled 
with  himself.  His  thoughts  turned  to  his  distant  home  beyond  the  sea.  An  in- 
describable sweet  feeling  rose  within  him. 

"Thither  will  I  turn  my  wandering  footsteps,"  said  he,  "and  be  a  man  among 
men,  and  no  longer  a  dreamer  among  shadows.  Henceforth  be  mine  a  life  of 
action  and  reality  !  I  will  work  in  my  own  sphere,  nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is. 
This  alone  is  health  and  happiness." 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  GOOD  MAN.  — THE  GOOD  WOMAN.        63 


THE     GOOD     MAN. 

A  GOOD  man  lives  to  his  own  heart.     He  thinks  it  not  good  manners  to  slight 
the  world's  opinion  ;  though  he  will  regard  it  only  in  the  second  place. 

A  good  man  will  look  upon  every  accession  of  power  to  do  good  as  a  new  trial 
to  the  integrity  of  his  heart. 

A  good  man,  though  he  will  value  his  own  countrymen,  yet  will  think  as  highly 
of  the  worthy  men  of  every  nation  under  the  sun. 

A  good  man  is  a  prince  of  the  Almighty's  creation. 

A  good  man  will  not  engage  even  in  a  national  cause,  without  examining  the 
justice  of  it. 

How  much  more  glorious  a  character  is  that  of  the  friend  of  mankind,  than  that 
of  the  conqueror  of  nations  ? 

The  heart  of  a  worthy  man  is  ever  on  his  lips  ;  he  will  be  pained  when  he  cannot 
speak  all  that  is  in  it. 

An  impartial  spirit  will  admire  goodness  or  greatness  wherever  he  meets  it,  and 
whether  it  makes  for  or  against  him. 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


THE     GOOD     WOMAN. 

A  GOOD  woman  is  one  of  the  greatest  glories  of  the  creation. 

How  do  the  duties  of  a  good  wife,  a  good  mother,  and  a  worthy  matron,  well 
performed,  dignify  a  woman  ! 

A  good  woman  reflects  honor  on  all  those  who  had  any  hand  in  her  education, 
and  on  the  company  she  has  kept. 

A  woman  of  virtue  and  of  good  understanding,  skilled  in,  and  delighting  to  per- 
form  the  duties  of  domestic  life,  needs  not  fortune  to  recommend  her  to  the  choice 
of  the  greatest  and  richest  man,  who  wishes  his  own  happiness. 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


64  JOHN    AND     LORN  A. 


JOHN     AND     LORNA. 

AFTER  long  or  short  —  I  know  not,  yet  ere  I  was  weary,  ere  I  yet  began  to 
think  or  wish  for  any  answer  —  Lorna  slowly  raised  her  eyelids,  with  a  gleam  of 
dew  below  them,  and  looked  at  me  doubtfully.  Any  look  with  so  much  in  it  never 
met  my  gaze  before. 

"  Darling,  do  you  love  me  ?  "  was  all  that  I  could  say  to  her. 

"  Yes,  I  like  you  very  much,"  she  answered,  with  her  eyes  gone  from  me,  and 
her  dark  hair  falling  over,  so  as  not  to  show  me  things. 

"  But  do  you  love  me,  Lorna,  Lorna  —  do  you  love  me  more  than  all  the 
world  ?  " 

"  No,  to  be  sure  not.     Why  should  I  ?  " 

"  In  truth,  I  know  not  why  you  should.  Only  I  hoped  that  you  did,  Lorna. 
Either  love  me  not  at  all,  or  as  I  love  you,  forever." 

"John,  I  love  you  very  much  ;  and  I  would  not  grieve  you.  You  are  the  bravest, 
and  the  kindest,  and  the  simplest  of  all  men  —  I  mean  of  all  people.  I  like  you 
very  much,  Master  Ridd,  and  I  think  of  you  almost  every  day." 

"  That  will  not  do  for  me,  Lorna.  Not  almost  every  day  I  think,  but  every  in- 
stant of  my  life,  of  you.  For  you  I  would  give  up  my  home,  my  love  of  all  the  world 
beside,  my  duty  to  my  dearest  ones ;  for  you  I  would  give  up  my  life,  and  hope  of 
life  beyond  it."  .  .  . 

With  the  large  tears  in  her  eyes  —  tears  which  seemed  to  me  to  rise  partly 
from  her  want  to  love  me  with  the  power  of  my  love  —  she  put  her  pure  bright 
lips,  half-smiling,  half-prone  to  reply  to  tears,  against  my  forehead,  lined  with 
trouble,  doubt,  and  eager  longing.  And  then  she  drew  my  ring  from  off  that  snowy 
twig  her  finger,  and  held  it  out  to  me  ;  and  then,  seeing  how  my  face  was  falling, 
thrice  she  touched  it  with  her  lips,  and  sweetly  gave  it  back  to  me.  "  John,  I 
dare  not  take  it  now  ;  else  I  should  be  cheating  you.  I  will  try  to  love  you  dearly, 
even  as  you  deserve  and  wish.  Keep  it  for  me  just  till  then.  Something  tells  me 
I  shall  earn  it  in  a  very  little  time.  Perhaps  you  will  be  sorry  then,  sorry,  when  it 
is  all  too  late,  to  be  loved  by  such  as  I  am." 

What  could  I  do,  at  her  mournful  tone,  but  kiss  a  thousand  times  the  hand 
which  she  put  up  to  warn  me ;  and  vow  that  I  would  rather  die  with  one  assurance 
of  her  love,  than  without  it  live  forever  with  all  beside  that  the  world  could  give  ? 
Upon  this  she  looked  so  lovely,  with  her  dark  eyelashes  trembling,  and  her  soft 
eyes  full  of  light,  and  the  color  of  clear  sunrise  mounting  on  her  cheeks  and  brow, 
that  I  was  forced  to  turn  away,  being  overcome  with  beauty. 

"  Dearest  darling,  love  of  my  life,"  I  whispered,  through  her  clouds  of  hair ; 
"how  long  must  I  wait  to  know — how  long  must  I  linger  doubting  whether  you 
can  ever  stoop  from  your  birth  and  wondrous  beauty  to  a  poor,  coarse  hind  like  me 
—  an  ignorant,  unlettered  yeoman  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  have  you  revile  yourself,"  said  Lorna,  very  tenderly  —  just  as  I  had 


CARLYLE     TO    HIS    MOTHER.  65 

meant  to  make  her.  "  You  are  not  rude  and  unlettered,  John.  You  know  a  great 
deal  more  than  I  do  ;  you  have  learned  both  Greek  and  Latin,  as  you  told  me  long 
ago,  and  you  -have  been  at  the  very  best  school  in  the  West  of  England.  None  of 
us  but  my  grandfather  and  the  Counsellor  (who  is  a  great  scholar)  can  compare 
with  you  in  this.  And  though  I  have  laughed  at  your  manner  of  speech,  I  only 
laughed  in  fun,  John  ;  I  never  meant  to  vex  you  by  it,  nor  knew  that  I  had  done 
so." 

"  Naught  you  say  can  vex  me,  dear,"  I  answered,  as  she  leaned  toward  me,  in 
her  generous  sorrow  ;  "  unless  you  say,  '  Begone,  John  Ridd  ;  I  love  another  more 
than  you.'  "... 

"  Master  John  Ridd,  it  is  high  time  for  you  to  go  home  to  your  mother.  I 
love  your  mother  very  much  from  what  you  have  told  me  about  her,  and  I  will  not 
have  her  cheated." 

"  If  you  truly  love  my  mother,"  said  I,  very  craftily,  "  the  only  way  to  show  it 
is  by  truly  loving  me." 

Upon  that,  she  laughed  at  me  in  the  sweetest  manner,  and  with  such  provoking 
ways,  and  such  come-and-go  of  glances,  and  beginning  of  quick  blushes,  which  she 
tried  to  laugh  away,  that  I  knew,  as  well  as  if  she  herself  had  told  me,  by  some 
knowledge  (void  of  reasoning,  and  the  surer  for  it),  I  knew  quite  well,  while  all  my 
heart  was  burning  hot  within  me,  and  mine  eyes  were  shy  of  hers,  and  her  eyes 
were  shy  of  mine  —  for  certain  and  forever,  this  I  knew,  as  in  a  glory,  that  Lorna 
Doone  had  now  begun  and  would  go  on  to  love  me. 

R.  D.  BLACKMORE. 


CARLYLE     TO     HIS     MOTHER. 

THIS  letter  may  operate  as  a  spur  on  the  diligence  of  my  beloved  and  valuable 
correspondents  at  Mainhill.  There  is  a  small  blank  made  in  the  sheet  for  a  pur- 
pose which  you  will  notice.*  I  beg  you  to  accept  the  little  picture  which  fills  it 
without  any  murmuring.  It  is  a  poor  testimonial  of  the  grateful  love  I  should  ever 
bear  you.  If  I  hope  to  get  a  moderate  command  of  money  in  the  course  of  my 
life's  operations,  I  long  for  it  chiefly  that  I  may  testify  to  those  dear  to  me  what 
affection  I  entertain  for  them.  In  the  meantime  we  ought  to  be  thankful  that 
we  have  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  in  fear  of  want,  but  have  always  had  where- 
with to  gratify  one  another  by  these  little  acts  of  kindness,  which  are  worth  more 
than  millions  unblest  by  a  true  feeling  between  the  giver  and  receiver.  You  must 
buy  yourself  any  little  odd  things  you  want,  and  think  I  enjoy  it  along  with  you,  if 
it  add  to  your  comfort.  I  do  indeed  enjoy  it  with  you.  I  should  be  a  dog  if  I  did 
not.  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  kindness  and  true  affection  such  as  no  other  heart 
will  ever  feel  for  me.  I  am  proud  of  my  mother,  though  she  is  neither  rich  nor 

*  Half  a  page  is  cut  off,  and  contains  evidently  a  check  for  a  small  sum  of  money.  —  J.  A    FROUDB. 


66  ON    THE    MIDDLE     STATION    OF    LIFE. 

learned.  If  I  ever  forget  to  love  and  reverence  her,  I  must  cease  to  be  a  creature 
myself  worth  remembering.  Often,  my  dear  mother,  in  solitary,  pensive  moments 
does  it  come  across  me  like  the  cold  shadow  of  death  that  we  two  must  part  in  the 
course  of  time.  I  shudder  at  the  thought,  and  find  no  refuge  except  in  humbly 
trusting  that  the  great  God  will  surely  appoint  us  a  meeting  in  that  far  country  to 
which  we  are  tending.  May  he  bless  you  forever,  my  good  mother,  and  keep  up 
in  your  heart  those  sublime  hopes  which  at  present  serve  as  a  pillar  of  cloud  by 
day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night  to  guide  your  footsteps  through  the  wilderness 
of  life.  We  are  in  his  hands.  He  will  not  utterly  forsake  us.  Let  us  trust  in 

him. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


ON     THE     MIDDLE     STATION     OF     LIFE. 

THE  moral  of  the  following  fable  will  easily  discover  itself  without  my  explain- 
ing it.  One  rivulet  meeting  another,  with  whom  he  had  been  long  united  in 
strictest  amity,  with  noisy  haughtiness  and  disdain  thus  bespoke  him  :  —  "  What, 
brother !  still  in  the  same  state  !  still  low  and  creeping  !  Are  you  not  ashamed 
when  you  behold  me,  who,  though  lately  in  a  like  condition  with  you,  am  now 
become  a  great  river,  and  shall  shortly  be  able  to  rival  the  Danube  or  the  Rhine, 
provided  those  friendly  rains  continue  which  have  favored  my  banks,  but  neglected 
yours  ?  "  "  Very  true,"  replies  the  humble  rivulet,  "  you  are  now,  indeed,  swollen 
to  a  great  size  ;  but  methinks  you  are  become  withal  somewhat  turbulent  and 
muddy.  I  am  contented  with  my  low  condition  and  my  purity." 

Instead  of  commenting  upon  this  fable,  I  shall  take  occasion  from  it  to  compare 
the  different  stations  of  life,  and  to  persuade  such  of  my  readers  as  are  placed  in 
the  middle  station  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  as  the  most  eligible  of  all  others.  These 
form  the  most  numerous  rank  of  men  that  can  be  supposed  susceptible  of  philosophy, 
and  therefore  all  discourses  of  morality  ought  principally  to  be  addressed  to  them. 
The  great  are  too  much  immersed  in  pleasure,  and  the  poor  too  much  occupied  in 
providing  for  the  necessities  of  life,  to  hearken  to  the  calm  voice  of  reason.  The 
middle  station,  as  it  is  most  happy  in  many  respects,  so  particularly  in  this,  that  a 
man  placed  in  it  can,  with  the  greatest  leisure,  consider  his  own  happiness,  and 
reap  a  new  enjoyment,  from  comparing  his  situation  with  that  of  persons  above  or 
below  him. 

Agur's  prayer  is  sufficiently  noted  — "  Two  things  have  I  required  of  thee ; 
deny  me  them  not  before  I  die  :  Remove  far  from  me  vanity  and  lies  ;  give  me 
neither  poverty  nor  riches  ;  feed  me  with  food  convenient  for  me,  lest  I  be  full  and 
deny  thee,  and  say,  who  is  the  Lord  ?  or  lest  I  be  poor,  and  steal,  and  take  the 
name  of  my  God  in  vain."  The  middle  station  is  here  justly  recommended,  as 


ON    THE    MIDDLE     S2^ATION    OF    LIFE.  67 

affording  the  fullest  security  for  virtue ;  and  I  may  also  add,  that  it  gives  opportu- 
nity for  the  most  ample  exercise  of  it,  and  furnishes  employment  tor  every  good 
quality  which  we  can  possibly  be  possessed  of.  Those  who  are  placed  among  the 
lower  ranks  of  men  have  little  opportunity  of  exerting  any  other  virtue  besides 
those  of  patience,  resignation,  industry  and  integrity.  Those  who  are  advanced 
into  the  higher  stations,  have  full  employment  for  their  generosity,  humanity,  affa- 
bility and  charity.  When  a  man  lies  betwixt  these  two  extremes,  he  can  exert  the 
former  virtues  towards  his  superiors,  and  the  latter  towards  his  inferiors.  Every 
moral  quality  which  the  human  soul  is  susceptible  of,  may  have  its  turn,  and  be 
called  up  to  action ;  and  a  man  may,  after  this  manner,  be  much  more  certain  of 
his  progress  in  virtue,  than  where  his  good  qualities  lie  dormant  and  without 
employment. 

But  there  is  another  virtue  that  seems  principally  to  lie  among  equals  ;  and  is,  for 
that  reason,  chiefly  calculated  for  the  middle  station  of  life.  This  virtue  is  friendship. 
I  believe  most  men  of  generous  tempers  are  apt  to  envy  the  great,  when  they  con- 
sider the  large  opportunities  such  persons  have  of  doing  good  to  their  fellow- 
creatures,  and  of  acquiring  the  friendship  and  esteem  of  men  of  merit.  They  make  no 
advances  in  vain,  and  are  not  obliged  to  associate  with  those  whom  they  have  little 
kindness  for,  like  people  of  inferior  stations,  who  are  subject  to  have  their  proffers 
of  friendship  rejected  even  where  they  would  be  most  fond  of  placing  their 
affections.  But  though  the  great  have  more  facility  in  acquiring  friendships,  they 
cannot  be  so  certain  of  the  sincerity  of  them  as  men  of  a  lower  rank,  since  the 
favors  they  bestow  may  acquire  them  flattery,  instead  of  good-will  and  kindness. 
It  has  been  very  judiciously  remarked,  that  we  attach  ourselves  more  by  the  ser- 
vices we  perform  than  by  those  we  receive,  and  that  a  man  is  in  danger  of  losing 
his  friends  by  obliging  them  too  far.  I  should  therefore  choose  to  lie  in  the  middle 
way,  and  to  have  my  commerce  with  my  friend  varied  both  by  obligations  given 
and  received.  I  have  too  much  pride  to  be  willing  that  all  the  obligations  should 
lie  on  my  side,  and  should  be  afraid  that,  if  they  all  lay  on  his,  he  would  also  have 
too  much  pride  to  be  entirely  easy  under  them,  or  have  a  perfect  complacency  in 
my  company. 

DAVID  HUME. 


68  MELONS. 


MELONS. 

I  WAS  engaged  in  filling  a  void  in  the  Literature  of  the  Pacific  Coast.  As  this 
void  was  a  pretty  large  one,  and  as  I  was  informed  that  the  Pacific  Coast  languished 
under  it,  I  set  apart  two  hours  each  day  to  this  work  of  filling  in.  It  was  necessary 
that  I  should  adopt  a  methodical  system,  so  I  retired  from  the  world  and  locked 
myself  in  my  room  at  a  certain  hour  each  day,  after  coming  from  my  office.  I  then 
carefully  drew  out  my  portfolio  and  read  what  I  had  written  the  day  before.  This 
would  suggest  some  alterations,  and  I  would  carefully  rewrite  it.  During  this 
operation  I  would  turn  to  consult  a  book  of  reference,  which  invariably  proved  ex- 
tremely interesting  and  attractive.  It  would  generally  suggest  another  and  better 
method  of  "  filling  in."  Turning  this  method  over  reflectively  in  my  mind,  I  would 
finally  commence  the  new  method  which  I  eventually  abandoned  for  the  original 
plan.  At  this  time  I  would  become  convinced  that  my  exhausted  faculties  de- 
manded a  cigar.  The  operation  of  lighting  a  cigar  usually  suggested  that  a  little 
quiet  reflection  and  meditation  would  be  of  service  to  me,  and  I  always  allowed 
myself  to  be  guided  by  prudential  instincts.  Eventually,  seated  by  my  window,  as 
before  stated,  Melons  asserted  himself.  Though  our  conversation  rarely  went 
further  than  "  Hello,  Mister  !  "  and  "  Ah,  Melons  !  "  a  vagabond  instinct  we  felt  in 
common  implied  a  communion  deeper  than  words.  In  this  spiritual  commingling 
the  time  passed,  often  beguiled  by  gymnastics  on  the  fence  or  line  (always  with  an 
eye  to  my  window)  until  dinner  was  announced  and  I  found  a  more  practical  void 
requited  my  attention.  An  unlooked-for  incident  drew  us  in  closer  relation. 

A  sea-faring  friend  just  from  a  tropical  voyage  had  presented  me  with  a  bunch 
of  bananas.  They  were  not  quite  ripe,  and  I  hung  them  before  my  window  to 
mature  in  the  sun  of  McGinnis's  Court,  whose  forcing  qualities  were  remarkable. 
In  the  mysteriously  mingled  odors  of  ship  and  shore  which  they  diffused  through- 
out my  room,  there  was  lingering  reminiscence  of  low  latitudes.  But  even  that 
joy  was  fleeting  and  evanescent :  they  never  reached  maturity. 

Coming  home  one  day,  as  I  turned  the  corner  of  that  fashionable  thoroughfare 
before  alluded  to,  I  met  a  small  boy  eating  a  banana.  There  was  nothing  remark- 
able in  that,  but  as  I  neared  McGinnis's  Court  I  presently  met  another  small  boy,  also 
eating  a  banana.  A  third  small  boy  engaged  in  a  like  occupation  obtruded  a  pain- 
ful coincidence  upon  my  mind.  I  leave  the  psychological  reader  to  determine 
the  exact  co-relation  between  the  circumstance  and  the  sickening  sense  of  loss  that 
overcame  me  on  witnessing  it.  I  reached  my  room  —  and  found  the  bunch  of 
bananas  was  gone. 

There  was  but  one  that  knew  of  their  existence,  but  one  who  frequented  my 
window,  but  one  capable  of  gymnastic  effort  to  procure  them,  and  that  was  —  I 
blush  to  say  it  —  Melons.  Melons  the  depredator  —  Melons,  despoiled  by  larger 
boys  of  his  ill-gotten  booty,  or  reckless  and  indiscreetly  liberal  ;  Melons  —  now  a 
fugitive  on  some  neighborhood  house-top.  I  lit  a  cigar,  and,  drawing  my  chair  to 


MELONS. 


69 


the  window,  sought  surcease  of  sorrow  in  the  contemplation  of  the  fish-geranium. 
In  a  few  moments  something  white  passed  my  window  at  about  the  level  of  the 
edge.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  hoary  head,  which  now  represented  to  me  only 
aged  iniquity.  It  was  Melons,  that  venerable,  juvenile  hypocrite. 

He  affected  not  to  observe  me,  and  would  have  withdrawn  quietly,  but  that 
horrible  fascination  which  causes  the  murderer  to  revisit  the  scene  of  his  crime, 
impelled  him  toward  my  window.  I  smoked  calmly,  and  gazed  at  him  without 
speaking.  He  walked  several  times  up  and  down  the  court  with  a  half-rigid,  half- 
belligerent  expression  of  eye  and  shoulders,  intended  to  represent  the  carelessness 
of  innocence. 

Once  or  twice  he  stopped,  and  putting  his  arms  their  whole  length  into  his 
capacious  trousers,  gazed  with  some 
interest  at  the  additional  width  they 
thus  acquired.  Then  he  whistled. 
The  singular  conflicting  conditions 
of  John  Brown's  body  and  soul  were 
at  that  time  beginning  to  attract  the 
attention  of  youth,  and  Melon's  per- 
formance of  that  melody  was  always 
remarkable.  But  to-day  he  whistled 
falsely  and  shrilly  between  his  teeth. 
At  last  he  met  my  eye.  He  winced 
slightly,  but  recovered  himself,  and 
going  to  the  fence,  stood  for  a  few 
moments  on  his  hands,  with  his  bare 
feet  quivering  in  the  air.  Then  he 
turned  toward  me  and  threw  out  a 
conversational  preliminary. 

"  They  is  a  cirkis  "  —  said  Melons 

gravely,  hanging  with  his  back  to  the 

fence  and  his  arms  twisted  around  the 

palings  —  "a  cirkis  over  yonder  !  " 

indicating  the  locality  with  his  foot 

—  "  with  bosses,  and  hossback  riders.  They  is  a  man  wot  rides  six  bosses  to 
onct  — six  bosses  to  onct — and  nary  saddle  "  -and  he  paused  in  expectation. 

Even  this  equestrian  novelty  did  not  affect  me.  I  still  kept  a  fixed  gaze  on 
Melon's  eye,  and  he  began  to  tremble  and  visibly  shrink  in  his  capacious  garment. 
Some  other  desperate  means  —  conversation  with  Melons  was  always  a  desperate 
means  —  must  be  resorted  to.  He  recommenced  more  artfully. 

"  Do  you  know  Carrots  ?  " 

I  had  a  faint  remembrance  of  a  boy  of  that  euphonious  name,  with  scarlet  hair, 
who  was  a  playmate  and  persecutor  of  Melons.  But  I  said  nothing. 

"  Carrots  is  a  bad  boy.  Killed  a  policeman  onct.  Wears  a  dirk  knife  in  his 
boots,  saw  him  to-day  looking  in  your  windy." 


yo        ON    REFUSAL     TO    NEGOTIATE     WITH    NAPOLEON. 

I  felt  that  this  must  end  here.     I  rose  sternly  and  addressed  Melons. 

"  Melons,  this  is  all  irrelevant  and  impertinent  to  the  case.  You  took  those 
bananas.  Your  proposition  regarding  Carrots,  even  if  I  were  inclined  to  accept  it 
as  credible  information,  does  not  alter  the  material  issue.  You  took  those  bananas. 
The  offense  under  the  Statutes  of  California  is  felony.  How  far  Carrots  may  have 
been  accessory  to  the  fact  either  before  or  after,  is  not  my  intention  at  present  to 
discuss.  The  act  is  complete.  Your  present  conduct  shows  the  animo  furandi  to 
have  been  equally  clear." 

By  the  time  I  had  finished  this  exordium,  Melons  had  disappeared,  as  I  fully 
expected. 

He  never  reappeared.  The  remorse  that  I  have  experienced  for  the  part  I  had 
taken  in  what  I  fear  may  have  resulted  in  his  utter  and  complete  extermination, 
alas,  he  may  not  know,  except  through  these  pages.  For  I  have  never  seen  him 
since.  Whether  he  ran  away  and  went  to  sea  to  reappear  at  some  future  day  as 
the  most  ancient  of  mariners,  or  whe'ther  he  buried  himself  completely  in  his 
trousers,  I  never  shall  know.  I  have  read  the  papers  anxiously  for  accounts  of 
him.  I  have  gone  to  the  Police  Office  in  the  vain  attempt  of  identifying  him  as  a 
lost  child.  But  I  never  saw  him  or  heard  of  him  since.  Strange  fears  have  some- 
times crossed  my  mind  that  his  venerable  appearance  may  have  been  actually  the 
result  of  senility,  and  that  he  may  have  been  gathered  peacefully  to  his  fathers  in 
a  green  old  age.  I  have  even  had  doubts  of  his  existence,  and  have  sometimes 
thought  that  he  was  providentially  and  mysteriously  offered  to  fill  the  void  I  have 
before  alluded  to.  In  that  hope  I  have  written  these  pages. 

BRET  HARTE. 


ON  REFUSAL  TO  NEGOTIATE  WITH 

NAPOLEON. 

WHAT,  then,  was  the  nature  of  this  system  ?  Was  it  anything  but  what  I  have 
stated  it  to  be?  an  insatiable  love  of  aggrandizement,  an  implacable  spirit  of  de- 
struction against  all  the  civil  and  religious  institutions  of  every  country.  This  is 
the  first  moving  and  acting  spirit  of  the  French  Revolution  ;  this  is  the  spirit  which 
animated  it  at  its  birth,  and  this  is  the  spirit  which  will  not  desert  it  till  the  mo- 
ment of  its  dissolution,  "which  grew  with  its  growth,  which  strengthened  with  its 
strength,"  but  which  has  not  abated  under  its  misfortunes,  nor  declined  in  its 
decay.  It  has  been  invariably  the  same  in  every  period,  operating  more  or  less, 
according  as  accident  or  circumstance  might  assist  it  ;  but  it  has  been  inherent  in 
the  Revolution  in  all  its  stages ;  it  has  equally  belonged  to  Brissot  to  Robespierre, 


ON    REFUSAL     TO    NEGOTIATE     WITH    NAPOLEON.       71 

to  Tallien,  to  Reubell,  to  Barras,  and  to  every  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  Directory, 
but  to  none  more  than  to  Bonaparte,  in  whom  now  all  their  powers  are  united. 
What  are  its  characters  ?  Can  it  be  accident  that  produced  them  ? 

No,  it  is  only  from  the  alliance  of  the  most  horrid  principles,  with  the  most 
horrid  means,  that  such  miseries  could  have  been  brought  upon  Europe.  It  is  this 
paradox  which  we  must  always  keep  in  mind  when  we  are  discussing  any  question 
relative  to  the  effects  of  the  French  Revolution.  Groaning  under  every  degree  of 
misery,  the  victim  of  its  own  crimes,  and  as  I  once  before  expressed  in  this  House, 
asking  pardon  of  God  and  of  man  for  the  miseries  which  it  has  brought  upon  itself 
and  others,  France  still  retains  (while  it  has  neither  left  means  of  comfort  nor 
almost  of  subsistence  to  its  own  inhabitants)  new  and  unexampled  means  of 
annoyance  and  destruction  against  all  the  other  powers  of  Europe. 

Its  first  fundamental  principle  was  to  bribe  the  poor  against  the  rich  by  propos- 
ing to  transfer  into  new  hands,  on  the  delusive  notion  of  equality,  and  in  breach 
of  every  principle  of  justice,  the  whole  property  of  the  country.  The  practical 
application  of  this  principle  was  to  devote  the  whole  of  that  property  to  indiscrimi- 
nate plunder,  and  to  make  it  the  foundation  of  a  revolutionary  system  of  finance, 
productive  in  proportion  to  the  misery  and  desolation  which  it  created.  It  has  been 
accompanied  by  an  unwearied  spirit  of  proselytism,  diffusing  itself  over  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth  ;  a  spirit  which  can  apply  itself  to  a'll  circumstances  and  all 
situations,  which  can  furnish  a  list  of  grievances  and  hold  out  a  promise  of  redress 
equally  to  all  nations  ;  which  inspired  the  teachers  of  French  liberty  with  the  hope 
of  alike  recommending  themselves  to  those  who  live  under  the  feudal  code  of  the 
German  Empire  ;  to  the  various  states  of  Italy,  under  all  their  different  institutions  ; 
to  the  old  republicans  of  Holland,  and  to  the  new  republicans  of  America ;  to  the 
Catholic  of  Ireland,  whom  it  was  to  deliver  from  Protestant  usurpation  ;  to  the 
Protestant  of  Switzerland,  whom  it  was  to  deliver  from  Popish  superstition  ;  and 
to  the  Mussulman  of  Egypt,  whom  it  was  to  deliver  from  Christian  persecution  ;  to 
the  remote  Indian,  blindly  bigoted  to  his  ancient  institutions  ;  and  to  the  natives 
of  Great  Britain,  enjoying  the  perfection  of  practical  freedom,  and  justly  attached 
to  their  Constitution,  from  the  joint  result  of  habit,  of  reason,  and  of  experience. 
The  last  and  distinguishing  feature  is  a  perfidy  which  nothing  can  bind,  which  no 
tie  of  treaty,  no  sense  of  the  principles  generally  received  among  nations,  no  obli- 
gation, human  or  divine,  can  restrain.  Thus  qualified,  thus  armed  for  destruction, 
the  genius  of  the  French  Revolution  marched  forth,  the  terror  and  dismay  of  the 
world.  Every  nation  has  in  its  turn  been  the  witness,  many  have  been  the  victims 
of  its  principles  ;  and  it  is  left  for  us  to  decide  whether  we  will  compromise  with 
such  a  danger,  while  we  have  yet  resources  to  supply  the  sinews  of  war,  while 
the  heart  and  spirit  of  the  country  is  yet  unbroken,  and  while  we  have  the  means 
of  calling  forth  and  supporting  a  powerful  co-operation  in  Europe. 

WILLIAM   PITT. 


PARODY  ON  THE  SPEECHES  OF  CHARLES  If. 


PARODY  ON  THE  SPEECHES  OF  CHARLES  II. 

MY  lords  and  gentlemen, 

I  told  you,  at  our  last  meeting,  the  Winter  was  the  fittest  time  for  business, 
and  truly  I  thought  so,  till  my  lord-treasurer  assured  me  the  Spring  was  the  best 
season  for  salads  and  subsidies.  I  hope,  therefore,  that  April  will  not  prove  so 
unnatural  a  month,  as  not  to  afford  some  kind  showers  on  my  parched  exchequer, 
which  gapes  for  want  of  them.  Some  of  you,  perhaps,  will  think  it  dangerous  to 
make  me  too  rich ;  but  I  do  not  fear  it ;  for  I  promise  you  faithfully,  whatever  you 
give  me  I  will  always  want ;  and  although  in  other  things  my  word  may  be  thought 
a  slender  authority,  yet  in  that,  you  may  rely  on  me,  I  will  never  break  it. 

My  lords  and  gentlemen, 

I  can  bear  my  straits  with  patience  ;  but  my  lord-treasurer  does  protest  to  me, 
that  the  revenue,  as  it  now  stands,  will  not  serve  him  and  me  too.  One  of  us  must 
pinch  for  it,  if  you  do  not  help  me.  I  must  speak  freely  to  you  ;  I  am  under  bad 
circumstances.  Here  is  my  lord-treasurer  can  tell,  that  all  the  money  designed  for 
next  Summer's  guards  must  of  necessity  be  applied  to  the  next  year's  cradles  and 
swaddling  clothes.  What  shall  we  do  for  ships  then  ?  I  hint  this  only  to  you,  it 
being  your  business,  not  mine.  I  know,  by  experience,  I  can  live  without  ships. 
I  lived  ten  years  abroad  without,  and  never  had  my  health  better  in  my  life ;  but 
how  you  will  be  without,  I  leave  to  yourselves  to  judge,  and  therefore  hint  this 
only  by  the  bye  :  I  do  not  insist  upon  it.  There  is  another  thing  I  must  press 
more  earnestly,  and  that  is  this  :  it  seems  a  good  part  of  my  revenue  will  expire  in 
two  or  three  years,  except  you  will  be  pleased  to  continue  it.  I  have  to  say  for  it ; 
pray,  why  did  you  give  me  so  much  as  you  have  done,  unless  you  resolve  to  give 
on  as  fast  as  I  call  for  it?  The  nation  hates  you  already  for  giving  so  much,  and  I 
will  hate  you  too,  if  you  do  not  give  me  more.  So  that,  if  you  stick  not  to  me,  you 
must  not  have  a  friend  in  England.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  will  give  me  the 
revenue  I  desire,  I  shall  be  able  to  do  those  things  for  your  religion  and  liberty, 
that  I  have  had  long  in  my  thoughts,  but  cannot  effect  them  without  a  little  more 
money  to  carry  me  through.  Therefore  look  to't,  and  take  notice,  that  if  you  do 
not  make  me  rich  enough  to  undo  you,  it  shall  lie  at  your  doors.  For  my  part,  I 
wash  my  hands  on  it. 

If  you  desire  more  instances  of  my  zeal,  I  have  them  for  you.  For  example,  I 
have  converted  my  sons  from  popery,  and  I  may  say,  without  vanity,  it  was  my 
own  work.  'Twould  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear  how  prettily  George  can  read 
already  in  the  psalter.  They  are  all  fine  children,  God  bless  'em,  and  so  like  me 
in  their  understandings. 

I  must  now  acquaint  you,  that,  by  my  lord-treasurer's  advice,  I  have  made  a 
considerable  retrenchment  upon  my  expenses  in  candles  and  charcoal,  and  do  not 
intend  to  stop,  but  will,  with  your  help,  look  into  the  late  embezzlements  of  my 
dripping-pans  and  kitchen-stuff.  ANDREW  MARVELL. 


THE    DESTINY    OF    THE    REPUBLIC. 


73 


THE     DESTINY     OF     THE     REPUBLIC. 


WE  are  a  young  republic,  just  en- 
tering upon  the  arena  of  nations  ;  we 
will  be  the  architects  of  our  own  for- 
tunes. Our  destiny,  under  Providence, 
is  in  our  own  hands.  With  wisdom, 
prudence,  and  statesmanship  on  the 
part  of  our  public  men,  and  intelli- 
gence, virtue,  and  patriotism  on  the 
part  of  the  people,  success  to  the  full 
measure  of  our  most  sanguine  hopes 
may  be  looked  for.  But,  if  unwise 
counsels  prevail,  if  we  become  divided, 
if  schisms  arise,  if  dissensions  spring 
up,  if  factions  are  engendered,  if  party 
spirit,  nourished  by  unholy  personal 
ambition,  shall  rear  its  hydra  head,  I 
have  no  good  to  prophesy  for  you. 
Without  intelligence,  virtue,  integ- 
rity, and  patriotism  on  the  part  of 
the  people,  no  republic  or  representa- 
tive government  can  be  durable  or 
stable. 
ALEXANDER  HAMILTON  STEPHENS. 


ALEXANDER  HAMILTON  STEPHENS. 


NEWS     FROM     THE     FRONT. 

THERE  came  the  unwonted  sound  of  horses'  feet  trampling  along  the  lane. 
Two  men  rode  up  to  the  gate  and  dismounted.  As  they  came  in  we  saw  that  they 
wore  blue  uniforms,  and  a  moment  later  we  recognized  the  latter  one  whom  we 
had  seen  several  times  while  the  crevasse  was  open  and  the  Yankee  soldiers  had 
come  down  to  help  rebuild  the  levee.  He  was  the  Colonel  of  the  regiment  camped 
above  the  bend  of  the  river. 

The  little  boys  ran  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge  to  Aunt  Rose,  and  I  shrank 
back  leaving  Uncle  Joshua  to  go  forward  and  meet  them.  The  tall  Colonel  stopped 
when  he  came  up  to  Uncle  Joshua  and  said  something  to  him  in  a  low  tone.  Uncle 
Joshua's  voice  in  reply  sounded  sharp  and  unnatural,  though  I  could  not  hear  what 
he  said.  The  officer  spoke  again  and  seemed  to  be  urging  something ;  and  then 


74  NEWS    FROM    THE     FRONT. 

Uncle  Joshua  fell  upon  his  knees  and  began  sobbing  and  rocking  himself  to  and 
fro.  "  Oh,"  I  heard  him  cry  as  if  half  beside  himself,  "  who  gwine  ter  tell  her !  I 
cyant  tell  her  !  Oh,  Lord,  whar  give  an'  whar  tek  away,  hab  mussy  on  her  !  An' 
on  de  chillun  !  Oh,  my  Marster  !  my  Marster  !  " 

The  Colonel  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  irresolute  and  perplexed  and  then  walked 
on  slowly  toward  the  house  followed  by  his  orderly.  He  carried  in  his  hand  a 
sheathed  sword  which  I  had  seen  him  take  from  the  soldier  as  they  came  in  the 
gateway.  Once  he  turned  as  if  to  go  back.  A  quick  exclamation  broke  from  him 
as  he  faced  around  again.  For  there  in  the  walk  before  him  and  barring  his  way 
stood  mother.  She  had  come  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge  followed  by  the 
little  boys  who  were  all  huddled  about  her.  She  was  deadly  pale  and  her  great 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  officer's  face  with  a  look  of  terror.  I  had  never  seen  fear 
on  her  brave  face  before  and  I  shivered  at  it  while  I  wondered  what  it  meant. 

The  Colonel  uncovered  his  head  and  the  soldier  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
took  off  his  cap.  The  weather-beaten  faces  of  the  men  were  almost  as  pale  as 
mother's  ! 

There  was  a  short  silence ;  the  officer  seemed  to  be  trying  to  find  a  way  to 
begin  what  he  had  to  say. 

"  Madame,"  he  said  at  last,  "a  messenger  coming  from  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  and  bearing  letters  and  —  other  messages  for  this  neighborhood  has  been 
captured  by  some  of  my  men.  A  number  of  the  letters  he  carried  were  old  — 
some  of  them  had  been  drifting  about  for  months.  But  one  among  them  was  of 
late  date  and  contained  the  news  of" 

He  broke  off  abruptly  and  turned  away  as  if  unable  to  bear  the  look  in  the  eyes 
gazing  into  his.  His  glance  fell  upon  little  Percy.  He  stooped  and  bent  one  knee 
to  the  ground  and  drew  the  child  gently  to  him.  "  My  son,"  he  said,  putting  the 
sword  into  the  small  hands  and  closing  them  upon  it,  "give  this  to  your  mother 
and  tell  her  that  it  was  the  sword  of  a  brave  and  honorable  man  who  died  a  gallant 
death  on  the  battle-field."  The  empty  tray  she  was  holding  dropped  from  mother's 
hand  and  a  low  cry  escaped  from  her  blanched  lips.  "Tell  her  —  "  but  a  tear 
splashed  down  upon  the  little  upturned  face.  He  laid  a  hand  caressingly  upon  the 
yellow  curls  and  rose  to  his  feet.  He  thrust  a  letter  into  the  hands  of  one  of  the 
other  children  and  without  another  word  he  hurried  off  down  the  walk  ;  the  soldier 
followed,  and  a  moment  later  they  were  galloping  along  the  lane  toward  the  river. 

I  think  none  of  us  really  understood  until  little  Percy  went  up  to  mother  and 
began  in  his  childish  way  to  repeat  what  the  officer  had  said.  But  when  with  one 
great  sob  she  stooped  and  lifted  him  in  her  arms  with  father's  sword  hugged  to  his 
breast  —  oh,  then,  we  all  knew  ! 

Father  had  been  killed  ten  days  before  at  the  head  of  his  men  while  leading  a 
charge  ;  and  he  had  been  buried  on  the  battle-field. 

M.  E.  M.  DAVIS. 


THE     GETTYSBURG    ADDRESS. 


75 


THE     GETTYSBURG     ADDRESS. 

FOURSCORE  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth  upon  this  continent  a 
new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are 
created  equal.  Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that 
nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We  are 
met  on  a  great  battlefield  of  that  war.  We  have  come  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that 
field  as  a  final  resting- 
place  for  those  who  here 
gave  their  lives  that  that 
nation  might  live.  It  is 
altogether  fitting  and  pro- 
per that  we  should  do  this. 
But  in  a  larger  sense  we 
cannot  dedicate,  we  can- 
not consecrate,  we  cannot 
hallow  this  ground.  The 
brave  men,  living  and  dead, 
who  struggled  here,  have 
consecrated  it  far  above 
our  power  to  add  or  de- 
tract. The  world  will  little 
note,  nor  long  remember, 
what  we  say  here,  but  it 
can  never  forget  what 
they  did  here.  It  is  for  us, 
the  living,  rather  to  be 
dedicated  here  to  the  un- 
finished work  which  they 
who  fought  here  have  thus 
far  so  nobly  advanced. 
It  is  rather  for  us  to  be 
here  dedicated  to  the  great 
task  remaining  before  us, 
that  from  these  honored 
dead  we  take  increased 
devotion  to  that  cause  for 
which  they  gave  the  last 
full  measure  of  devotion  ; 

that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain  ;  that  this 
nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and  that  government  of  the 
people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 


THE    MIDNIGHT    SUN. 


THE     MIDNIGHT     SUN. 


As  we  crossed  the  mouth  of 
the  Ulvsfjord  that  evening,  we 
had  an  open  sea  horizon  toward 
the  north,  a  clear  sky,  and  so 
much  sunshine  at  eleven  o'clock 
that  it  was  evident  the  Polar  day 
had  dawned  upon  us  at  last.  The 
illumination  of  the  shores  was 
unearthly  in  its  glory,  and  the 
wonderful  effects  of  the  orange 
sunlight,  playing  upon  the  dark 
hues  of  the  island  cliffs,  can 
neither  be  told  nor  painted.  The 
sun  hung  low  between  Fugloe, 
rising  like  a  double  dome  from 
the  sea,  and  the  tall  mountains 
of  Arnoe,  both  of  which  islands 
resembled  immense  masses  of 
transparent  purple  glass,  gradu- 
ally melting  into  crimson  fire  at 
their  bases.  The  glassy,  leaden- 
colored  sea  was  powdered  with  a 
golden  bloom,  and  the  tremen- 
dous precipices  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Lyngen  Fjord  behind  us, 
were  steeped  in  a  dark  red  mel- 
low, flush,  and  touched  with  pencillings  of  pure,  rose-colored  light,  until  their 
naked  ribs  seemed  to  be  clothed  in  imperial  velvet.  As  we  turned  into  the 
Fjord  and  ran  southward  along  their  bases,  a  waterfall,  struck  by  the  sun,  fell  in 
fiery  orange  foam  down  the  red  walls,  and  the  blue  ice-pillars  of  a  beautiful  glacier 
filled  up  the  ravine  beyond  it.  We  were  all  on  deck  ;  and  all  faces,  excited  by  the 
divine  splendor  of  the  scene  and  tinged  by  the  same  wonderful  aureole,  shone  as 
if  transfigured.  In  my  whole  life  I  have  never  seen  a  spectacle  so  unearthly 
beautiful. 

Our  course  brought  the  sun  rapidly  toward  the  ruby  cliffs  of  Arnoe,  and  it  was 
evident  that  he  would  soon  be  hidden  from  sight.  It  was  not  yet  half-past  eleven, 
and  an  enthusiastic  passenger  begged  the  captain  to  stop  the  vessel  until  midnight. 
"  Why,"  said  the  latter,  "it  is  midnight  now,  or  very  near  it ;  you  have  Drontheim 
time,  which  is  almost  forty  minutes  in  arrears."  True  enough,  the  real  time 
lacked  but  five  minutes  of  midnight,  and  those  of  us  who  had  sharp  eyes  and 


BAYARU   TAYLOR. 


THE     WHISTLE. 


77 


strong  imaginations  saw  the  sun  make  his  last  dip  and  rise  a  little,  before  he 
vanished  in  a  blaze  of  glory  behind  Arnoe.  I  turned  away  with  my  eyes  full  of 
dazzling  spheres  of  crimson  and  gold,  which  danced  before  me  wherever  I  looked; 
and  it  was  a  long  time  before  they  were  blotted  out  by  the  semi-oblivion  of  a 
daylight  sleep. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


THE     WHISTLE. 


WHEN  I  was  a  child,  at  seven  years  old,  my  friends,  on  a  holiday,  filled  my  little 
pocket  with  coppers.  I  went  directly  to  a  shop  where  they  sold  toys  for  children  ; 
and,  being  charmed  with  the  sound  of  a  whistle,  that  I  met  by  the  way  in  the 
hands  of  another  boy,  I  voluntarily  offered  him  all  my  money  for  one.  I  then 
camehome,  and  went  whist- 
ling all  over  the  house, 
much  pleased  with  my 
whistle,  but  disturbing  all 
the  family.  My  brothers 
and  sisters  and  cousins, 
understanding  the  bargain 
I  had  made,  told  me  I  had 
given  four  times  as  much 
for  it  as  it  was  worth.  This 
put  me  in  mind  what  good 
things  I  might  have  bought 
with  the  rest  of  my  money  ; 
and  they  laughed  at  me  so 
much  for  my  folly  that  I 
cried  with  vexation ;  and 
the  reflection  gave  me  more 
chagrin  than  the  whistle 
gave  me  pleasure. 

This,  however,  was 
afterwards  of  use  to  me, the 
impression  continuing  on 
my  mind  ;  so  that  often, 
when  I  was  tempted  to  buy 
some  unnecessary  thing,  I 
said  to  myself,  don't  give  too  much  for  the  whistle,  and  so  I  saved  my  money. 

As  I  grew  up,  came  into  the  world,  and  observed  the  actions  of  men,  I  thought 
I  met  with  many,  very  many,  who  gave  too  much  for  the  whistle. 

When  I  saw  any  one  too  ambitious  of  court  favor,  —  sacrificing  his  time  in 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 


THE      WHISTLE. 


attendance  at  levees,  his  repose,  his  liberty,  his  virtue,  and  perhaps  his  friends,  to 
attain  it,  —  I  have  said  to  myself,  this  man  gives  too  much  for  his  whistle. 

When  I  saw  another  fond  of  popularity,  constantly  employing  himself  in  politi- 
cal bustles,  neglecting  his  own  affairs,  and  ruining  them  by  that  neglect,  he  pays, 

indeed,   says    I,    too    much    for    his 
whistle. 

If  I  knew  a  miser  who  gave  up 
every  kind  of  comfortable  living,  — 
all  the  pleasure  of  doing  good  to 
others,  —  all  the  esteem  of  his  fellow- 
citizens,  —  and  the  joys  of  benevolent 
friendship,  for  the  sake  of  accumula- 
ting wealth,  poor  man,  says  I,  you 
do,  indeed,  pay  too  much  for  your 
whistle. 

When  I  meet  a  man  of  pleasure, 
sacrificing  every  laudable  improve- 
ment of  the  mind  or  of  his  fortune  to 
mere  corporeal  sensations,  —  "  Mis- 
taken man,"  says  I,  "  you  are  provid- 
ing pain  for  yourself  instead  of 
pleasure, — you  give  too  much  for 
your  whistle." 

If  I  see  one  fond  of  fine  clothes, 
fine  furniture,  fine  equipages,  all  above 
his  fortune,  for  which  he  contracts 
debts,  and  ends  his  career  in  prison, 
—  "  Alas,"  says  I,  "  he  has  paid  dear,  very  dear,  for  his  whistle." 

When  I  see  a  beautiful,  sweet-tempered  girl  married  to  an  ill-natured  brute  of  a 

husband,  —  "What  a  pity  it  is,"  says  I,  "that  she  has  paid  so  much  for  a  whistle." 

In    short,    I   conceived   that   a  great   part    of    the    miseries   of  mankind   were 

brought  upon  them  by  the  false  estimates  they  had  made  of  the  value  of  things, 

and  by  their  giving  too  much  for  their  whistles. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


STATUE  OF    FRANKLIN,    INDEPENDENCE    HALL,    PA. 


INAUGURAL     ADDRESS  J9 


INAUGURAL     ADDRESS. 

SUCH  being  the  impression  under  which  I  have,  in  obedience  to  the  public 
summons,  repaired  to  the  present  station,  it  would  be  peculiarly  improper  to  omit 
in  this  first  official  act,  my  fervent  supplications  to  that  Almighty  Being  who  rules 
over  the  universe  —  who  presides  in  the  councils  of  nations  —  and  whose  provi- 
dential aids  can  supply  every  human  defect,  that  his  benediction  may  consecrate 
to  the  liberties  and  happiness  of  the  people  of  the  United  States,  a  government 
instituted  by  themselves  for  these  essential  purposes  ;  and  may  enable  every  in- 
strument employed  in  its  administration  to  execute,  with  success,  the  functions 
allotted  to  his  charge.  In  tendering  this  homage  to  the  great  author  of  every 
public  and  private  good,  I  assure  myself  that  it  expresses  your  sentiments  not 
less  than  my  own,  nor  those  of  my  fellow-citizens  at  large  less  than  either.  No 
people  can  be  bound  to  acknowledge  and  adore  the  invisible  hand,  which  conducts 
the  affairs  of  men,  more  than  the  people  of  the  United  States.  Every  step  by 
which  they  have  advanced  to  the  character  of  an  independent  nation,  seems  to 
have  been  distinguished  by  some  token  of  providential  agency ;  and  in  the  im- 
portant revolution  just  accomplished  in  the  system  of  their  united  government, 
the  tranquil  deliberations  and  voluntary  consent  of  so  many  distinct  communities, 
from  which  the  event  has  resulted,  cannot  be  compared  with  the  means  by  which 
most  governments  have  been  established,  without  some  return  of  pious  gratitude 
along  with  an  humble  anticipation  of  the  future  blessings  which  the  past  seems  to 
presage.  These  reflections,  arising  out  of  the  present  crisis,  have  forced  them- 
selves too  strongly  on  my  mind  to  be  suppressed.  You  will  join  with  me,  I  trust, 
in  thinking  that  there  are  none  under  the  influence  of  which  the  proceedings  of 
a  new  and  free  government  can  more  auspiciously  commence. 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 


THE    ESSENTIAL    PRINCIPLES     OF     GOVERNMENT. 

ABOUT  to  enter,  fellow  citizens,  upon  the  exercise  of  duties  which  comprehend 
everything  dear  and  valuable  to  you,  it  is  proper  you  should  understand  what  I 
deem  the  essential  principles  of  our  government,  and  consequently  those  which 
ought  to  shape  its  administration.  I  will  compress  them  within  the  narrowest 
compass  they  will  bear,  stating  the  general  principle,  but  not  all  its  limitations. 
Equal  and  exact  justice  to  all  men,  of  whatever  state  or  persuasion,  religious  or 
political  ;  peace,  commerce,  and  honest  friendship  with  all  nations,  entangling 
alliances  with  none  ;  the  support  of  the  State  governments  in  all  their  rights,  as 


8o       THE    ESSENTIAL     PRINCIPLES     OF    GOVERNMENT. 


the  most  competent  administrations  for  our  domestic  concerns,  and  the  surest 
bulwarks  against  anti-republican  tendencies  ;  the  preservation  of  the  general  gov- 
ernment in  its  whole  constitutional  vigor,  as  the  sheet  anchor  of  our  peace  at 
home  and  safety  abroad;  a  jealous  care  of  the  right  of  election  by  the  people,  a 
mild  and  safe  corrective  of  abuses  which  are  lopped  by  the  sword  of  revolution 
where  peaceable  remedies  are  unprovided  ;  absolute  acquiescence  in  the  decisions  of 
the  majority,  the  vital  principle  of  republics,  from  which  there  is  no  appeal  but  to 
force,  the  vital  principle  and  immediate  parent  of  despotism  ;  a  well-disciplined 
militia,  our  best  reliance  in  peace,  and  for  the  first  moments  of  war,  till  regulars 

may  relieve  them ;  the  supremacy  of 
the  civil  over  the  military  authority  ; 
economy  in  the  public  expense,  that 
labor  may  be  lightly  burdened ;  the 
honest  payment  of  our  debts,  and 
sacred  preservation  of  the  public 
faith  ;  encouragement  of  agriculture, 
and  of  commerce  as  its  handmaid ; 
the  diffusion  of  information  and 
arraignment  of  all  abuses  at  the  bar 
of  the  public  reason  ;  freedom  of 
religion,  freedom  of  the  press,  and 
freedom  of  person,  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  habeas  corpus,  and  trial  by 
juries  impartially  selected.  These 
principles  form  the  bright  constella- 
tion which  has  gone  before  us  and 
guided  our  steps  through  an  age  of 
revolution  and  reformation.  The 
wisdom  of  our  sages  and  blood  of 

our  heroes  have  been  devoted  to  their  attainment ;  they  should  be  the  creed  of 
our  political  faith,  the  text  of  civic  instruction,  the  touchstone  by  which  to  try  the 
services  of  those  we  trust ;  and  should  we  wander  from  them  in  moments  of  error 
or  of  alarm,  let  us  hasten  to  retrace  our  steps,  and  to  regain  the  road  which  alone 
leads  to  peace,  liberty,  and  safety. 

THOMAS  JEFFERSON. 


THOMAS   JEFFERSON. 


CONCILIATION.  81 


CONCILIATION. 

BUT  there  is  still  behind  a  third  consideration  concerning  this  object,  which 
serves  to  determine  my  opinion  on  the  sort  of  policy  which  ought  to  be  pursued 
in  the  management  of  America,  even  more  than  its  population  and  its  commerce 
-  I  mean  its  temper  and  character.  In  this  character  of  the  Americans,  a  love  of 
freedom  is  the  predominating  feature,  which  marks  and  distinguishes  the  whole ; 
and,  as  an  ardent  is  always  a  jealous  affection,  your  colonies  become  suspicious, 
restive,  and  untractable,  whenever  they  see  the  least  attempt  to  wrest  from  them 
by  force,  or  shuffle  from  them  by  chicane,  what  they  think  the  only  advantage 
worth  living  for. 

This  fierce  spirit  of  liberty  is  stronger  in  the  English  colonies,  probably,  than 
in  any  other  people  of  the  earth,  and  this  from  a  variety  of  powerful  causes,  which, 
to  understand  the  true  temper  of  their  minds,  and  the  direction  which  this  spirit 
takes,  it  will  not  be  amiss  to  lay  open  somewhat  more  largely. 

First,  the  people  of  the  colonies  are  descendants  of  Englishmen.  England, 
sir,  is  a  nation  which  still,  I  hope,  respects,  and  formerly  adored  her  freedom. 
The  colonists  emigrated  from  you  when  this  part  of  your  character  was  most  pre- 
dominant ;  and  they  took  this  bias  and  direction  the  moment  they  parted  from 
your  hands.  They  are,  therefore,  not  only  devoted  to  liberty,  but  to  liberty  ac- 
cording to  English  ideas  and  on  English  principles.  Abstract  liberty,  like  other 
mere  abstractions,  is  not  to  be  found.  Liberty  inheres  in  some  sensible  object ; 
and  every  nation  has  formed  to  itself  some  favorite  point  which,  by  way  of  emi- 
nence, becomes  the  criterion  of  their  happiness.  It  happened,  you  know,  sir,  that 
the  great  contests  for  freedom  in  this  country  were,  from  the  earliest  times,  chiefly 
upon  the  question  of  taxing.  Most  of  the  contests  in  the  ancient  commonwealths 
turned  primarily  on  the  right  of  election  of  magistrates,  or  on  the  balance  among 
the  several  orders  of  the  State.  The  question  of  money  was  not  with  them  so 
immediate.  But  in  England  it  was  otherwise.  On  this  point  of  taxes  the  ablest 
pens  and  most  eloquent  tongues  have  been  exercised  ;  the  greatest  spirits  have 
acted  and  suffered.  In  order  to  give  the  fullest  satisfaction  concerning  the  im- 
portance of  this  point,  it  was  not  only  necessary  for  those  who  in  argument 
defended  the  excellence  of  the  English  Constitution,  to  insist  on  this  privilege  of 
granting  money  as  a  dry  point  of  fact,  and  to  prove  that  the  right  had  been  ac- 
knowledged in  ancient  parchments  and  blind  usages  to  reside  in  a  certain  body 
called  the  House  of  Commons.  They  went  much  farther :  they  attempted  to 
prove  (and  they  succeeded)  that  in  theory  it  ought  to  be  so,  from  the  particular 
nature  of  a  House  of  Commons,  as  an  immediate  representative  of  the  people, 
whether  the  old  records  had  delivered  this  oracle  or  not.  They  took  infinite  pains 
to  inculcate,  as  a  fundamental  principle,  that,  in  all  monarchies,  the  people  must, 
in  effect,  themselves,  mediately  or  immediately,  possess  the  power  of  granting 
their  own  money,  or  no  shadow  of  liberty  could  subsist.  The  colonies  draw  from 


82  CO  NCIL I  A  TI O  N. 

you,  as  with  their  life-blood,  those  ideas  and  principles.  Their  love  of  liberty,  as 
with  you,  fixed  and  attached  on  this  specific  point  of  taxing.  Liberty  might  be 
safe  or  might  be  endangered  in  twenty  other  particulars,  without  their  being 
much  pleased  or  alarmed.  Here  they  felt  its  pulse  ;  and,  as  they  found  that 
beat,  they  thought  themselves  sick  or  sound.  I  do  not  say  whether  they  were 
right  or  wrong  in  applying  your  general  arguments  to  their  own  case.  It  is 
not  easy,  indeed,  to  make  a  monopoly  of  theorems  and  corollaries.  The  fact 
is,  that  they  did  thus  apply  those  general  arguments ;  and  your  mode  of  gov- 
erning them,  whether  through  lenity  or  indolence,  through  wisdom  or  mistake, 
confirmed  them  in  the  imagination  that  they,  as  well  as  you,  had  an  interest  in 
these  common  principles. 

They  were  further  confirmed  in  these  pleasing  errors  by  the  form  of  their  pro- 
vincial legislative  assemblies.  Their  governments  are  popular  in  a  high  degree ; 
some  are  merely  popular ;  in  all,  the  popular  representative  is  the  most  weighty  ; 
and  this  share  of  the  people  in  their  ordinary  government  never  fails  to  inspire 
them  with  lofty  sentiments,  and  with  a  strong  aversion  from  whatever  tends  to 
deprive  them  of  their  chief  importance. 

If  any  thing  were  wanting  to  this  necessary  operation  of  the  form  of  govern- 
ment, religion  would  have  given  it  a  complete  effect.  Religion,  always  a  principle 
of  energy,  in  this  new  people  is  no  way  worn  out  or  impaired  ;  and  their  mode  of 
professing  it  is  also  one  main  cause  of  this  free  spirit.  The  people  are  Protestants  ; 
and  of  that  kind  which  is  the  most  averse  to  all  implicit  submission  of  mind  and 
opinion.  This  is  a  persuasion  not  only  favorable  to  liberty,  but  built  upon  it.  I 
do  not  think,  sir,  that  the  reason  of  this  averseness  in  the  dissenting  churches 
from  all  that  looks  like  absolute  government,  is  so  much  to  be  sought  in  their 
religious  tenets  as  in  their  history.  Every  one  knows  that  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion  is  at  least  coeval  with  most  of  the  governments  where  it  prevails  ;  that  it 
has  generally  gone  hand  in  hand  with  them ;  and  received  great  favor  and  every 
kind  of  support  from  authority.  The  Church  of  England,  too,  was  formed  from 
her  cradle  under  the  nursing  care  of  regular  government.  But  the  dissenting 
interests  have  sprung  up  in  direct  opposition  to  all  the  ordinary  powers  of  the 
world,  and  could  justify  that  opposition  only  on  a  strong  claim  to  natural  liberty. 
Their  very  existence  depended  on  the  powerful  and  unremitted  assertion  of  that 
claim.  All  Protestantism,  even  the  most  cold  and  passive,  is  a  kind  of  dissent. 
But  the  religion  most  prevalent  in  our  northern  colonies  is  a  refinement  on  the 
principle  of  resistance  ;  it  is  the  dissidence  of  dissent ;  and  the  Protestantism  of 
the  Protestant  religion. 

This  religion,  under  a  variety  of  denominations,  agreeing  in  nothing  but  in  the 
communion  of  the  spirit  of  liberty,  is  predominant  in  most  of  the  northern 
provinces ;  where  the  Church  of  England,  notwithstanding  its  legal  rights,  is  in 
reality  no  more  than  a  sort  of  private  sect,  not  composing,  most  probably,  the  tenth 
of  the  people.  The  colonists  left  England  when  this  spirit  was  high,  and  in  the 
emigrants  was  the  highest  of  all  ;  and  even  that  stream  of  foreigners,  which  has 
been  constantly  flowing  into  these  colonies,  has,  for  the  greatest  part,  been  com- 


ON     THE    KANSAS- NEBRASKA    BILL.  83 

posed  of  dissenters  from  the  establishments  of  their  several  countries,  and  have 
brought  with  them  a  temper  and  character  far  from  alien  to  that  of  the  people 
with  whom  they  mixed. 

EDMUND  BURKE. 


SUMNER'S  STUDY. 


ON     THE     KANSAS-NEBRASKA     BILL. 


FROM  these  expressions,  and  other  tokens  which  daily  greet  us,  it  is  evident 
that  at  least  the  religious  sentiment  of  the  country  is  touched,  and,  under  this 
sentiment,  I  rejoice  to  believe  that  the  whole  North  will  be  quickened  with  the 
true  life  of  freedom.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  speaking  to  Queen  Elizabeth  of  the  spirit 
which  animated  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  Netherlands  against  the 
Spanish  power,  exclaimed  :  "  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  Lord,  and  is  invincible."  A  simi- 
lar spirit  is  now  animating  the  free  States  against  the  slave  power,  breathing  every- 
where its  precious  inspiration,  and  forbidding  repose  under  the  attempted  usurpa- 
tion. The  threat  of  disunion,  so  often  sounded  in  our  ears,  will  be  disregarded  by 
an  aroused  and  indignant  people.  Ah,  sir,  Senators  vainly  expect  peace.  Not  in 
this  way  can  peace  come.  In  passing  this  bill  you  scatter,  broadcast  through  the 
land,  dragon's  teeth,  and  though  they  may  not,  as  in  ancient  fable,  spring  up 
armed  men,  yet  will  they  fructify  in  civil  strife  and  feud. 


84  ON    THE    KANSAS- NEBRASKA     BILL. 

From  the  depths  of  my  soul,  as  a  loyal  citizen  and  as  a  Senator,  I  plead,  remon- 
strate, protest  against  the  passage  of  this  bill.  I  struggle  against  it  as  against 
death  ;  but,  as  in  death  itself  corruption  puts  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal  body 
puts  on  immortality,  so  from  the  sting  of  this  hour  I  find  assurance  of  that  triumph 
by  which  freedom  will  be  restored  to  her  immortal  birthright  in  the  Republic. 

Sir,  the  bill  which  you  are  now  about  to  pass  is  at  once  the  worst  and  the  best 
bill  on  which  Congress  ever  acted. 

It  is  the  worst  bill,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a  present  victory  of  slavery.  In  a  Chris- 
tian land,  and  in  an  age  of  civilization,  a  time-honored  statute  of  freedom  is  struck 
down,  opening  the  way  to  all  the  countless  woes  and  wrongs  of  human  bondage. 
Among  the  crimes  of  history  a  new  one  is  about  to  be  recorded,  which,  in  better  days, 
will  be  read  with  universal  shame.  The  tea  tax  and  stamp  act,  which  aroused  the 
patriotic  rage  of  our  fathers,  were  virtues  by  the  side  of  this  enormity  ;  nor  would 
it  be  easy  to  imagine,  at  this  day,  any  measure  which  more  openly  defied  every 
sentiment  of  justice,  humanity,  and  Christianity.  Am  I  not  right,  then,  in  calling 
it  the  worst  bill  on  which  Congress  ever  acted  ? 

But  there  is  another  side  to  which  I  gladly  turn.  Sir,  it  is  the  best  bill  on 
which  Congress  ever  acted  ;  for  it  prepares  the  way  for  that  "  All  hail  hereafter," 
when  slavery  must  disappear.  It  annuls  all  past  compromises  with  slavery,  and 
makes  all  future  compromises  impossible.  Thus  it  puts  freedom  and  slavery  face  to 
face,  and  bids  them  grapple.  Who  can  doubt  the  result  ?  It  opens  wide  the  door 
of  the  future,  when,  at  last,  there  will  really  be  a  North,  and  the  slave  power  will  be 
broken  ;  when  this  wretched  despotism  will  cease  to  dominate  over  our  Govern- 
ment, no  longer  impressing  itself  upon  all  that  it  does,  at  home  and  abroad  ;  when 
the  National  Government  shall  be  divorced  in  every  way  from  slavery,  and,  accord- 
ing to  the  true  intention  of  our  fathers,  freedom  shall  be  established  by  Congress 
everywhere,  at  least  beyond  the  local  limits  of  the  States. 

Slavery  will  then  be  driven  from  its  usurped  foothold  here  in  the  District  of 
Columbia  ;  in  the  national  territories,  and  elsewhere  beneath  the  national  flag ;  the 
fugitive-slave  bill,  as  odious  as  it  is  unconstitutional,  will  become  a  dead  letter ; 
and  the  domestic  slave-trade,  so  far  as  it  can  be  reached,  but  especially  on  the  high 
seas,  will  be  blasted  by  Congressional  prohibition.  Everywhere  within  the  sphere 
of  Congress,  the  great  Northern  Hammer  will  descend  to  smite  the  wrong  ;  and  the 
irresistible  cry  will  break  forth,  "  No  more  slave  States  !  " 

Thus,  sir,  now  standing  at  the  very  grave  of  freedom  in  Kansas  and  Nebraska, 
I  find  assurances  of  that  happy  resurrection,  by  which  freedom  will  be  secured  here- 
after, not  only  in  these  territories,  but  everywhere  under  the  National  Government. 
More  clearly  than  ever  before,  I  now  see  "the  beginning  of  the  end"  of  slavery. 
Am  I  not  right,  then,  in  calling  this  measure  the  best  bill  on  which  Congress  ever 
acted  ? 

Sorrowfully  I  bend  before  the  wrong  you  are  about  to  perpetrate.  Joyfully  I 
welcome  all  the  promises  of  the  future. 

CHARLES  SUMNER. 


ALREADY    IN    THE    FIELD. 


SPEECH    BEFORE     THE      VIRGINIA     CONVENTION.         87 


SPEECH     BEFORE     THE     VIRGINIA     CONVENTION. 

MR.  PRESIDENT,  it  is  natural  to  man  to  indulge  in  the  illusions  of  hope.  We  are 
apt  to  shut  our  eyes  against  a  painful  truth,  and  listen  to  the  song  of  that  syren  till 
she  transforms  us  into  beasts.  Is  this  the  part  of  wise  men  engaged  in  a  great  and 
arduous  struggle  for  liberty?  Are  we  disposed  to  be  of  the  number  of  those  who, 
having  eyes,  see  not,  and  having  ears,  hear  not,  the  things  which  so  nearly  concern 
their  temporal  salvation  ?  For  my  part,  whatever  anguish  of  spirit  it  may  cost,  I 
am  willing  to  know  the  whole  truth ;  to  know  the  worst  and  to  provide  for  it. 

I  have  but  one  lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided  ;  and  that  is  the  lamp  of 
experience.  I  know  of  no  way  of  judging  of  the  future  but  by  the  past.  And 
judging  by  the  past,  I  wish  to  know  what  there  has  been  in  the  conduct  of  the 
British  ministry  for  the  last  ten  years,  to  justify  those  hopes  with  which  gentlemen 
have  been  pleased  to  solace  themselves  and  the  House?  Is  it  that  insidious  smile 
with  which  our  petition  has  been  lately  received  ?  Trust  it  not,  sir ;  it  will  prove 
a  snare  to  your  feet.  Suffer  not  yourselves  to  be  betrayed  with  a  kiss.  Ask  your- 
selves how  this  gracious  reception  of  our  petition  comports  with  these  war-like 
preparations  which  cover  our  waters  and  darken  our  land.  Are  fleets  and  armies 
necessary  to  a  work  of  love  and  reconciliation  ?  Have  we  shown  ourselves  so 
unwilling  to  be  reconciled  that  force  must  be  called  in  to  win  back  our  love?  Let 
us  not  deceive  ourselves,  sir.  These  are  the  implements  of  war  and.  subjugation ; 
the  last  arguments  to  which  kings  resort.  I  ask  gentlemen,  sir,  what  means  this 
martial  array,  if  its  purpose  be  not  to  force  us  to  submission  ?  Can  gentlemen 
assign  any  other  possible  motives  for  it  ?  Has  Great  Britain  any  enemy  in  this 
quarter  of  the  world,  to  call  for  all  this  accumulation  of  navies  and  armies  ?  No, 
sir,  she  has  none.  They  are  meant  for  us  ;  they  can  be  meant  for  no  other.  They 
are  sent  over  to  bind  and  rivet  upon  us  those  chains  which  the  British  ministry 
have  been  so  long  forging.  And  what  have  we  to  oppose  to  them  ?  Shall  we  try 
argument  ?  Sir,  we  have  been  trying  that  for  the  last  ten  years.  Have  we  any- 
thing new  to  offer  on  the  subject  ?  Nothing.  We  have  held  the  subject  up  in 
every  light  of  which  it  is  capable  ;  but  it  has  been  all  in  vain.  Shall  we  resort  to 
entreaty  and  humble  supplication  ?  What  terms  shall  we  find  which  have  not 
been  already  exhausted?  Let  us  not,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  deceive  ourselves  longer. 
Sir,  we  have  done  everything  that  could  be  done  to  avert  the  storm  which  is  now 
coming  on.  We  have  petitioned  ;  we  have  remonstrated  ;  we  have  supplicated  ;  we 
have  prostrated  ourselves  before  the  throne,  and  have  implored  its  interposition  to 
arrest  the  tyrannical  hands  of  the  ministry  and  parliament.  Our  petitions  have 
been  slighted  ;  our  remonstrances  have  produced  additional  violence  and  insult  ; 
our  supplications  have  been  disregarded  ;  and  we  have  been  spurned  with  contempt 
from  the  foot  of  the  throne.  In  vain,  after  these  things,  may  we  indulge  the  fond 
hope  of  peace  and  reconciliation.  There  is  no  longer  any  room  for  hope  if  we  wish 
to  be  free  —  if  we  mean  to  preserve  inviolate  those  inestimable  privileges  for 


88         SPEECH    BEFORE     THE     VIRGINIA     CONVENTION. 

which  we  have  been  so  long  contending —  if  we  mean  not  basely  to  abandon  the 
noble  struggle  in  which  we  have  been  so  long  engaged,  and  which  we  have  pledged 
ourselves  never  to  abandon  until  the  glorious  object  of  our  contest  shall  be  ob- 
tained, we  must  fight !  I  repeat  it,  sir,  we  must  fight !  An  appeal  to  arms  and  to 
the  God  of  Hosts  is  all  that  is  left  us  ! 

They  tell  us,  sir,  that  we  are  weak  ;  unable  to  cope  with  so  formidable  an  adver- 
sary. But  when  shall  we  be  stronger  ?  Will  it  be  the  next  week,  or  the  next 
year  ?  Will  it  be  when  we  are  totally  disarmed,  and  when  a  British  guard  shall  be 
stationed  in  every  house  ?  Shall  we  gather  strength  by  irresolution  and  inaction  ? 
Shall  we  acquire  the  means  of  effectual  resistance  by  lying  supinely  on  our  backs, 
and  hugging  the  delusive  phantom  of  hope,  until  our  enemies  shall  have  bound  us 
hand  and  foot  ?  Sir,  we  are  not  weak,  if  we  make  a  proper  use  of  the  means  which 
the  God  of  nature  hath  placed  in  our  power.  Three  millions  of  people,  armed  in 
the  holy  cause  of  liberty,  and  in  such  a  country  as  that  which  we  possess,  are  in- 
vincible by  any  force  which  our  enemy  can  send  against  us.  Besides,  sir,  we  shall 
not  fight  our  battles  alone.  There  is  a  just  God  who  presides  over  the  destinies 
of  nations;  and  who  will  raise  up  friends  to  fight  our  battles  for  us.  The  battle, 
sir,  is  not  to  the  strong  alone  ;  it  is  to  the  vigilant,  the  active,  the  brave.  Besides, 
sir,  we  have  no  election.  If  we  were  base  enough  to  desire  it,  it  is  now  too  late  to 
retire  from  the  contest.  There  is  no  retreat  but  in  submission  and  slavery  !  Our 
chains  are  forged  !  Their  clanking  may  be  heard  on  the  plains  of  Boston  !  The 
war  is  inevitable  —  and  let  it  come  !  I  repeat  it,  sir,  let  it  come  ! 

It  is  in  vain,  sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentlemen  may  cry  peace,  peace  — 
but  there  is  no  peace.  The  war  is  actually  begun  !  The  next  gale  that  sweeps 
from  the  north  will  bring  to  our  ears  the  clash  of  resounding  arms  !  Our  brethren 
are  already  in  the  field  !  Why  stand  we  here  idle  ?  What  is  it  that  gentlemen 
wish  ?  What  would  they  have  ?  Is  life  so  dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  pur- 
chased at  the  price  of  chains  and  slavery  ?  Forbid  it,  Almighty  God  !  I  know 
not  what  course  others  may  take ;  but  as  for  me,  give  me  liberty,  or  give  me 
death  ! 

PATRICK  HENRY. 


THE    LAST    TRAIN    NORTH.  89 


THE     LAST     TRAIN     NORTH. 

THE  jest  and  the  laugh  ran  to  and  fro  everywhere.  It  seemed  very  strange  to 
Mary  to  find  it  so.  There  were  two  or  three  convalescent  wounded  men  in  the 
car,  going  home  on  leave,  and  they  appeared  never  to  weary  of  the  threadbare  joke 
of  calling  their  wounds  "  furloughs."  There  was  one  little  slip  of  a  fellow  —  he 
could  hardly  have  been  seventeen  —  wounded  in  the  hand,  whom  they  kept  teased 
to  the  point  of  exasperation  by  urging  him  to  confess  that  he  had  shot  himself  for 
a  furlough,  and  of  whom  they  said,  later,  when  he  had  got  off  at  a  flag-station,  that 
he  was  the  bravest  soldier  in  his  company.  No  one  on  the  train  seemed  to  feel 
that  he  had  got  all  that  was  coming  to  him  until  the  conductor  had  exchanged  a 
jest  with  him.  The  land  laughed.  On  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left  it  dimpled 
and  wrinkled  in  gentle  depressions  and  ridges,  and  rolled  away  in  fields  of  young 
corn  and  cotton.  The  train  skipped  and  clattered  along  at  a  happy-go-lucky, 
twelve-miles-an-hour  gait,  over  trestles  and  stock-pits,  through  flowery  cuts  and 
along  slender,  rain-washed  embankments  where  dewberries  were  ripening,  and 
whence  cattle  ran  down  and  galloped  off  across  the  meadows  on  this  side  and  that, 
tails  up  and  heads  down,  throwing  their  horns  about,  making  light  of  the  screaming 
destruction,  in  their  dumb  way,  as  the  people  made  light  of  the  war.  At  stations 
where  the  train  stopped  —  and  it  stopped  on  the  faintest  excuse — a  long  line  of 
heads  and  gray  shoulders  were  thrust  out  of  the  windows  of  the  soldiers'  car,  in 
front,  with  all  manner  of  masculine  head-coverings,  even  bloody  handkerchiefs ; 
and  woe  to  the  negro  or  negress  or  "  citizen  "  who,  by  any  conspicuous  demerit  or 
excellence  of  dress,  form,  stature,  speech,  or  bearing,  drew  the  fire  of  that  line  ! 
No  human  power  of  face  or  tongue  could  stand  the  incessant  volley  of  stale  quips 
and  mouldy  jokes,  affirmative,  interrogative,  and  exclamatory  that  fell  about  their 
victim. 

At  one  spot,  in  a  lovely  natural  grove,  where  the  air  was  spiced  with  the  gentle 
pungency  of  the  young  hickory  foliage,  the  train  paused  a  moment  to  let  off  a  man 
in  fine  gray  cloth,  whose  yellow  stripes  and  one  golden  star  on  the  coat-collar  indi- 
cated a  major  of  cavalry.  It  seemed  as  though  pandemonium  had  opened.  Mules 
braying,  negroes  yodling,  axes  ringing,  teamsters  singing,  men  shouting  and  howl- 
ing, and  all  at  nothing  ;  mess-fires  smoking  all  about  in  the  same  hap-hazard,  but 
roomy,  disorder  in  which  the  trees  of  the  grove  had  grown  ;  the  railroad  side  lined 
with  a  motley  crowd  of  jolly  fellows  in  spurs,  and  the  atmosphere  between  them 
and  the  line  of  heads  in  the  car-windows  murky  with  the  interchange  of  compli- 
ments that  flew  back  and  forth  from  the  "  web-foots  "  *  to  the  "  critter  company," 
and  from  the  "  critter  company  "  to  the  "  web-foots."  As  the  train  moved  off,  "  I 
say,  boys,"  drawled  a  lank,  coatless  giant  on  the  roadside,  with  but  one  suspender 
and  one  spur,  "tha-at's  right  !  Gen'l  Beerygyard  told  you  to  strike  fo'  yo'  homes, 
an'  I  see  you  a-doin'  it  ez  fass  as  you  kin  git  thah."  And  the  "  citizens  "  in  the 

*  Infantry. 


9° 


THE    LAST    TRAIN    NORTH. 


rear  car-windows  giggled  even  at  that  ;  while  the  "  web-foots  "  he-hawed  their  de- 
rision, and  the  train  went  on,  as  one  might  say,  with  its  hands  in  its  pockets, 
whooping  and  whistling  over  the  fields  —  after  the  cows  ;  for  the  day  was  declining. 

Mary  was  awed.  As  she  had  been  forewarned  to  do,  she  tried  not  to  seem  un- 
accustomed to,  or  out  of  harmony  with,  all  this  exuberance.  But  there  was  some- 
thing so  brave  in  it,  coming  from  a  people  who  were  playing  a  losing  game,  with 
their  lives  and  fortunes  for  their  stakes  ;  something  so  gallant  in  it,  laughing  and 
gibing  in  the  sight  of  blood,  and  smell  of  fire,  and  shortness  of  food  and  raiment, 
that  she  feared  she  had  betrayed  a  stranger's  wonder  and  admiration  every  time 
the  train  stopped  and  the  idlers  of  the  station  platform  lingered  about  her  window 
and  silently  paid  their  ungraceful  but  complimentary  tribute  of  simulated  casual 
glances. 

For,  with  all  this  jest,  it  was  very  plain  there  was  but  little  joy.  It  was  not 
gladness;  it  was  bravery.  It  was  the  humor  of  an  invincible  spirit  —  the  gayety 
of  defiance.  She  could  easily  see  the  grim  earnestness  beneath  the  jocund  temper, 
and  beneath  the  unrepining  smile  the  privation  and  the  apprehension.  What  joy 
there  was,  was  a  martial  joy.  The  people  were  confident  of  victory  at  last, — a 
victorious  end,  whatever  might  lie  between ;  and  of  even  what  lay  between  they 
would  confess  no  fear.  Richmond  was  safe,  Memphis  safer,  New  Orleans  safest. 
Yea,  notwithstanding  Porter  and  Farragut  were  pelting  away  at  Forts  Jackson  and 
St.  Philip.  Indeed,  if  the  rumor  be  true,  if  Farragut's  ships  had  passed  those 
forts,  leaving  Porter  behind,  then  the  Yankee  sea-serpent  was  cut  in  two,  and  there 
was  an  end  of  him  in  that  direction.  Ha  !  ha  ! 

"  Is  to-day  the  twenty-sixth  ? "  asked  Mary,  at  last,  of  one  of  the  ladies  in  real 
ribbons,  leaning  over  toward  her. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

It  was  the  younger  one  who  replied.  As  she  did  so  she  came  over  and  sat  by 
Mary. 

"  I  judge,  from  what  I  heard  your  little  girl  asking  you,  that  you  are  going 
beyond  Jackson." 

"  I  am  going  to  New  Orleans." 

"  Do  you  live  there  ?  "     The  lady's  interest  seemed  genuine  and  kind. 

"  Yes.     I  am  going  to  join  my  husband  there." 

Mary  saw  by  the  reflection  in  the  lady's  face  that  a  sudden  gladness  must  have 
overspread  her  own. 

"  He'll  be  mighty  glad,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  pleasant  stranger,  patting  Alice's 
cheek,  and  looking,  with  a  pretty  fellow-feeling,  first  into  the  child's  face  and  then 
into  Mary's. 

"Yes,  he  will,"  said  Mary,  looking  down  upon  the  curling  locks  at  her  elbow 
with  a  mother's  happiness. 

"  Is  he  in  the  army  ?  "  asked  the  lady. 

Mary's  face  fell. 

"  His  health  is  bad,"  she  replied. 

"  I  know  some  nice  people  down  in  New  Orleans,"  said  the  lady  again. 


THE    LAST    TRAIN    NORTH.  91 

"We  haven't  many  acquaintances,"  rejoined  Mary,  with  a  timidity  that  was 
almost  trepidation.  Her  eyes  dropped,  and  she  began  softly  to  smooth  Alice's 
collar  and  hair. 

"I  didn't  know,"  said  the  lady,  "but  you  might  know  some  of  them.  For 
instance,  there  is  Dr.  Sevier." 

Mary  gave  a  start  and  smiled. 

"  Why,  is  he  your  friend  too  ? "  she  asked.  She  looked  up  into  the  lady's  quiet, 
brown  eyes  and  down  again  into  her  own  lap,  where  her  hands  had  suddenly  knit 
together,  and  then  again  into  the  lady's  face.  "  We  have  no  friend  like  Dr. 
Sevier." 

"  Mother,"  called  the  lady  softly,  and  beckoned.  The  senior  lady  leaned  toward 
her.  "Mother,  this  lady  is  from  New  Orleans,  and  is  an  intimate  friend  of  Dr. 
Sevier." 

The  mother  was  pleased. 

"What  might  one  call  your  name  ?"  she  asked,  taking  a  seat  behind  Mary  and 
continuing  to  show  her  pleasure. 

"  Richling." 

The  mother  and  daughter  looked  at  each  other.  They  had  never  heard  the 
name  before. 

Yet  only  a  little  while  later  the  mother  was  saying  to  Mary,  —  they  were  ex- 
pecting at  any  moment  to  hear  the  whistle  for  the  terminus  of  the  route,  the 
central  Mississippi  town  of  Canton  : 

"  My  dear  child,  no  !  I  couldn't  sleep  to-night  if  I  thought  you  was  all  alone 
in  one  o'  them  old  hotels  in  Canton.  No,  you  must  come  home  with  us.  We're 
barely  two  mile'  from  town,  and  we'll  have  the  carriage  ready  for  you  bright  and 
early  in  the  morning,  and  our  coachman  will  put  you  on  the  cars  just  as  nice  — 
Trouble  ?  "  She  laughed  at  the  idea.  "  No  ;  I  tell  you  what  would  trouble  me, 
—  that  is,  if  we'd  allow  it ;  that'd  be  for  you  to  stop  in  one  o'  them  hotels  all  alone, 
child,  and  like'  as  not  some  careless  servant  not  wake  you  in  time  for  the  cars 
to-morrow."  At  this  word  she  saw  capitulation  in  Mary's  eyes.  "  Come,  now,  my 
child,  we're  not  going  to  take  no  for  an  answer." 

Nor  did  they. 

But  what  was  the  result  ?  The  next  morning  when  Mary  and  Alice  stood  ready 
for  the  carriage,  and  it  was  high  time  they  were  gone,  the  carriage  was  not  ready  ; 
the  horses  had  got  astray  in  the  night.  And  while  the  black  coachman  was  on 
one  horse,  which  he  had  found  and  caught,  and  was  scouring  the  neighboring  fields 
and  lanes  and  meadows  in  search  of  the  other,  there  came  out  from  townward  upon 
the  still,  country  air,  the  long  whistle  of  the  departing  train  ;  and  then  the  distant 
rattle  and  roar  of  its  far  southern  journey  began,  and  then  its  warning  notes  to  the 
scattering  colts  and  cattle. 

"  Look  away  !  "  —  it  seemed  to  sing  —  "  Look  away  !  "  — the  notes  fading, 
failing  on  the  ear,  — "away  —  away —  away  down  south  in  Dixie,"-  — the  last  train 
that  left  for  New  Orleans  until  the  war  was  over. 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE. 


92  THE     GRASSHOPPER    AND     THE    ANT. 


THE     GRASSHOPPER     AND     THE     ANT. 

A  FRIVOLOUS  Grasshopper,  having  spent  the  Summer  in  Mirth  and  Revelry, 
went  on  the  approach  of  the  inclement  winter  to  the  Ant,  and  implored  it  of  its 
chanty  to  stake  him.  "  You  had  better  go  to  your  Uncle,"  replied  the  prudent 
Ant;  "had  you  imitated  my  Forethought  and  deposited  your  Funds  in  a  Savings 
Bank,  you  would  not  now  be  compelled  to  regard  your  Duster  in  the  light  of  an 
Ulster."  Thus  saying,  the  virtuous  Ant  retired,  and  read  in  the  Papers  next 
morning  that  the  Savings  Bank  where  he  had  deposited  his  Funds  had  suspended. 

Moral, — Dum  vivimus,  vivamus. 

GEORGE  T.  LANIGAN. 


THE     LITTLE     WOMEN'S     ROMANCE. 

SOMETHING  in  his  resolute  tone  made  Jo  look  up  quickly  to  find  him  looking 
down  at  her  with  an  expression  that  assured  her  the  dreaded  moment  had  come, 
and  made  her  put  out  her  hand  with  an  imploring,  — 

"  No,  Teddy,  please  don't  !  " 

"  I  will,  and  you  must  hear  me.  It's  no  use,  Jo  ;  we've  got  to  have  it  out,  and 
the  sooner  the  better  for  both  of  us,"  he  answered,  getting  flushed  and  excited  all 
at  once. 

"  Say  what  you  like,  then  ;  I'll  listen,"  said  Jo,  with  a  desperate  sort  of 
patience. 

Laurie  was  a  young  lover,  but  he  was  in  earnest,  and  meant  to  "have  it  out," 
if  he  died  in  the  attempt  ;  so  he  plunged  into  the  subject  with  characteristic  im- 
petuosity, saying  in  a  voice  that  would  get  choky  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  manful 
efforts  to  keep  it  steady,  — 

"  I've  loved  you  ever  since  I've  known  you,  Jo ;  couldn't  help  it,  you've  been 
so  good  to  me.  I've  tried  to  show  it,  but  you  wouldn't  let  me ;  now  I'm  going  to 
make  you  hear,  and  give  me  an  answer,  for  I  cant  go  on  so  any  longer." 

"  I  wanted  to  save  you  this  ;  I  thought  you'd  understand,"  began  Jo,  finding  it 
a  great  deal  harder  than  she  expected. 

"  I  know  you  did  ;  but  girls  are  so  queer  you  never  know  what  they  mean. 
They  say  No  when  they  mean  Yes,  and  drive  a  man  out  of  his  wits  just  for  the 
fun  of  it,"  returned  Laurie,  entrenching  himself  behind  an  undeniable  fact. 

"/don't.  I  never  wanted  to  make  you  care  for  me  so,  and  I  went  away  to 
keep  you  from  it  if  I  could." 

"  I  thought  so  ;  it  was  like  you,  but  it  was  no  use.  I  only  loved  you  all  the 
more,  and  I  worked  hard  to  please  you,  and  I  gave  up  billiards  and  everything  you 


THE    LITTLE     WOMEN'S  ROMANCE. 


93 


didn't  like,  and  waited  and  never  complained,  for  I  hoped  you'd  love  me,  though 
I'm  not  half  good  enough  "  —  here  there  was  a  choke  that  couldn't  be  controlled, 
so  he  decapitated  buttercups  while  he  cleared  his  "confounded  throat." 

"  Yes,  you  are  ;  you're  a  great  deal  too  good  for  me,  and  I'm  so  grateful  to 
you,  and  so  proud  and  fond  of  you,  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  love  you  as  you  want 
me  to.  I've  tried,  but  I  can't  change  the  feeling,  and  it  would  be  a  lie  to  say  I  do 
when  I  don't." 

"  Really,  truly,  Jo  ?  " 

He  stopped  short,  and  caught  both  her  hands  as  he  put  his  question  with  a  look 
which  she  did  not  soon  forget. 

"  Really,  truly,  dear." 

They  were  in  the  grove  now,  close  by  the  stile ;  and  when  the  last  words  fell 
reluctantly  from  Jo's  lips,  Laurie  dropped  her  hands,  and  turned  as  if  to  go  on, 
but  for  once  in  his 
life  that  fence  was 
too  much  for  him  ; 
so  he  just  laid  his 
head  down  on  the 
mossy   post,    and 
stood  so  still  that 
Jo  was  frightened. 

"Oh,  Teddy, 
I'm  so  sorry,  so 
desperately  sorry, 
I  could  kill  myself 
if  it  would  do  any 
good  !  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  take  it  so 
hard.  I  can't  help 
it  ;  you  know  it's 
impossible  for  peo- 
ple to  make  them- 
selves love  other 
people  if  they 
don't,"  cried  Jo, 
inelegantly  but 

remorsefully,  as  she  softly  patted  his  shoulder,  remembering  the  time  when  he 
had  comforted  her  so  long  ago. 

"  They  do  sometimes,"  said  a  muffled  voice  from  the  post. 

"  I  don't  believe  it's  the  right  sort  of  love,  and  I'd  rather  not  try  it,"  was  the 
decided  answer. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  while  a  blackbird  sung  blithely  on  the  willow  by  the 
river,  and  the  tall  grass  rustled  in  the  wind.  Presently  Jo  said  very  soberly,  as 
she  sat  down  on  the  step  of  the  stile,  - 


THE    ALCOTT    HOME. 


94  THE    LITTLE      WOMEN'S    ROMANCE. 

"  Laurie,  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

He  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  threw  up  his  head,  and  cried  out  in  a  fierce 
tone,  - 

"Don't  tell  me  that,  Jo  ;  I  can't  bear  it  now  !  " 

"Tell  what  ?"  she  asked,  wondering  at  his  violence. 

"  That  you  love  that  old  man." 

"  What  old  man  ?  "  demanded  Jo,  thinking  he  must  mean  his  grandfather. 

"  That  devilish  Professor  you  were  always  writing  about.  If  you  say  you  love 
him,  I  know  I  shall  do  something  desperate  ;  "  and  he  looked  as  if  he  would  keep 
his  word,  as  he  clenched  his  hands,  with  a  wrathful  sparkle  in  his  eyes. 

Jo  wanted  to  laugh,  but  restrained  herself,  and  said  warmly,  for  she,  too,  was 
getting  excited  with  all  this,  — 

"  Don't  swear,  Teddy!  He  isn't  old,  nor  anything  bad,  but  good  and  kind,  and 
the  best  friend  I've  got,  next  to  you.  Pray  don't  fly  into  a  passion  ;  I  want  to  be 
kind,  but  I  know  I  shall  get  angry  if  you  abuse  my  Professor.  I  haven't  the  least 
idea  of  loving  him  or  anybody  else." 

"  But  you  will,  after  a  while,  and  then  what  will  become  of  me  ?  " 

"You'll  love  some  one  else,  too,  like  a  sensible  boy,  and  forget  all  this  trouble." 

"  I  can't  love  any  one  else  ;  and  I'll  never  forget  you,  Jo,  never !  never !  "  with 
a  stamp  to  emphasize  his  passionate  words. 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  him  ?  "  sighed  Jo,  finding  that  emotions  were  more  unman- 
ageable than  she  expected.  "  You  haven't  heard  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Sit  down 
and  listen  ;  for  indeed  I  want  to  do  right  and  make  you  happy,"  she  said,  hoping  to 
soothe  him  with  a  little  reason,  which  proved  that  she  knew  nothing  about  love. 

Seeing  a  ray  of  hope  in  that  last  speech,  Laurie  threw  himself  down  on  the 
grass  at  her  feet,  leaned  his  arm  on  the  lower  step  of  the  stile,  and  looked  up  at  her 
with  an  expectant  face.  Now  that  arrangement  was  not  conducive  to  calm  speech 
or  clear  thought  on  Jo's  part  ;  for  how  could  she  say  hard  things  to  her  boy  while 
he  watched  her  with  eyes  full  of  love  and  longing,  and  lashes  still  wet  with  the 
bitter  drop  or  two  her  hardness  of  heart  had  wrung  from  him  ?  She  gently  turned 
his  head  away,  saying,  as  she  stroked  the  wavy  hair  which  had  been  allowed  to  grow 
for  her  sake,  —  how  touching  that  was  to  be  sure  !  — 

"  I  agree  with  mother  that  you  and  I  are  not  suited  to  each  other,  because  our 
quick  tempers  and  strong  wills  would  probably  make  us  very  miserable,  if  we  were 
so  foolish  as  to  "  -Jo  paused  a  little  over  the  last  word,  but  Laurie  uttered  it  with 
a  rapturous  expression,— 

"Marry,  —  no,  we  shouldn't  !  If  you  loved  me,  Jo,  I  should  be  a  perfect  saint, 
for  you  could  make  me  anything  you  like." 

"  No,  I  can't.  I've  tried  it  and  failed,  .and  I  won't  risk  our  happiness  by  such 
a  serious  experiment.  We  don't  agree,  and  never  shall  ;  so  we'll  be  good  friends 
all  our  lives,  but  we  won't  go  and  do  anything  rash." 

"  Yes,  we  will  if  we  get  the  chance,"  muttered  Laurie,  rebelliously. 

"Now  do  be  reasonable,  and  take  a  sensible  view  of  the  case,"  implored  Jo, 
almost  at  her  wit's  end. 


THE     LITTLE     WOMEN'S    ROMANCE.  95 

"  I  won't  be  reasonable ;  I  don't  want  to  take  what  you  call  'a  sensible  view  ;' 
it  won't  help  me,  and  it  only  makes  you  harder.  I  don't  believe  you've  got  any 
heart." 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't." 

There  was  a  little  quiver  in  Jo's  voice,  and  thinking  it  a  good  omen,  Laurie 
turned  round,  bringing  all  his  persuasive  powers  to  bear,  as  he  said,  in  the  wheedle- 
some  tone  which  had  never  been  so  dangerously  wheedlesome  before,  — 

"  Don't  disappoint  us,  dear !  Every  one  expects  it.  Grandpa  has  set  his  heart 
upon  it,  your  people  like  it,  and  I  can't  get  on  without  you.  Say  you  will,  and  let's 
be  happy.  Do,  do  !  " 

Not  until  months  afterward  did  Jo  understand  how  she  had  the  strength  of 
mind  to  hold  fast  to  the  resolution  she  had  made  when  she  decided  that  she  did 
not  love  her  boy,  and  never  could.  It  was  very  hard  to  do,  but  she  did  it,  knowing 
that  delay  was  both  useless  and  cruel. 

"  I  can't  say  '  Yes '  truly,  so  I  won't  say  it  at  all.  You'll  see  that  I'm  right,  by 
and  by,  and  thank  me  for  it,"  —she  began  solemnly. 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do  !  "  and  Laurie  bounced  up  off  the  grass,  burning  with 
indignation  at  the  bare  idea. 

"Yes,  you  will !  "  persisted  Jo  ;  "you'll  get  over  this  after  awhile,  and  find  some 
lovely,  accomplished  girl  who  will  adore  you,  and  make  a  fine  mistress  for  your 
fine  house.  I  shouldn't  ;  I'm  homely  and  awkward  and  odd  and  old,  and  you'd  be 
ashamed  of  me,  and  we  should  quarrel, — we  can't  help  it  even  now,  you  see, — 
and  I  shouldn't  like  elegant  society,  and  you  would,  and  you'd  hate  my  scribbling, 
and  I  couldn't  get  on  without  it,  and  we  should  be  unhappy,  and  wish  we  hadn't 
done  it,  and  everything  would  be  horrid  ! " 

"  Anything  more  ?  "  asked  Laurie,  finding  it  hard  to  listen  patiently  to  this 
prophetic  burst. 

"  Nothing  more,  except  that  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  marry.  I'm  happy  as  I 
am,  and  love  my  liberty  too  well  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  give  it  up  for  any  mortal  man." 

"  I  know  better  !  "  broke  in  Laurie.  "  You  think  so  now  ;  but  there'll  come  a 
time  when  you  will  care  for  somebody,  and  you'll  love  him  tremendously,  and  live 
and  die  for  him.  I  know  you  will,  it's  your  way,  and  I  shall  have  to  stand  by  and 
see  it ; "  and  the  despairing  lover  cast  his  hat  upon  the  ground  with  a  gesture  that 
would  have  seemed  comical,  if  his  face  had  not  been  so  tragical. 

"  Yes,  I  will  live  and  die  for  him,  if  he  ever  comes  and  makes  me  love  him  in 
spite  of  myself,  and  you  must  do  the  best  you  can  ! "  cried  Jo,  losing  patience  with 
poor  Teddy.  "  I've  done  my  best,  but  you  won't  be  reasonable,  and  it's  selfish  of 
you  to  keep  teasing  for  what  I  can't  give.  I  shall  always  be  fond  of  you,  very 
fond  indeed,  as  a  friend,  but  I'll  never  marry  you  ;  and  the  sooner  you  believe  it 
the  better  for  both  of  us,  —  so  now  !  " 

That  speech  was  like  fire  to  gunpowder.  Laurie  looked  at  her  a  minute  as  if 
he  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do  with  himself,  then  turned  sharply  away,  saying, 
in  a  desperate  sort  of  tone,  - 

"  You'll  be  sorry  some  day,  Jo." 


96  THE    LITTLE     WOMEN'S    ROMANCE. 

"  Oh,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  she  cried,  for  his  face  frightened  her. 

"  To  the  devil !  "  was  the  consoling  answer. 

For  a  minute  Jo's  heart  stood  still,  as  he  swung  himself  down  the  bank  toward 
the  river ;  but  it  takes  much  folly,  sin,  or  misery  to  send  a  young  man  to  a  violent 
death,  and  Laurie  was  not  one  of  the  weak  sort  who  are  conquered  by  a  single 
failure. 


THEY  had  been  floating  about  all  the  morning  from  gloomy  St.  Gingolf  to 
sunny  Montreux,  v/ith  the  Alps  of  Savoy  on  one  side,  Mont  St.  Bernard  and  the 
Dent  du  Midi  on  the  other,  pretty  Vevay  in  the  valley,  and  Lausanne  on  the  hill 
beyond,  a  cloudless  blue  sky  overhead,  and  the  bluer  lake  below,  dotted  with  the 
picturesque  boats  that  look  like  white-winged  gulls. 

They  had  been  talking  of  Bonnivard,  as  they  glided  past  Chillon,  and  of 
Rosseau,  as  they  looked  up  at  Clarens,  where  he  wrote  his  "Heloise."  Neither 
had  read  it,  but  they  knew  it  was  a  love-story,  and  each  privately  wondered  if  it 
was  half  as  interesting  as  their  own.  Amy  had  been  dabbling  her  hand  in  the 
water  during  the  little  pause  that  fell  between  them,  and  when  she  looked  up,  Laurie 
was  leaning  on  his  oars,  with  an  expression  in  his  eyes  that  made  her  say  hastily, 
merely  for  the  sake  of  saying  something,  — 

"  You  must  be  tired  ;  rest  a  little,  and  let  me  row  ;  it  will  do  me  good ;  for, 
since  you  came,  I  have  been  altogether  lazy  and  luxurious." 

"  I'm  not  tired  ;  but  you  may  take  an  oar,  if  you  like.  There's  room  enough, 
though  I  have  to  sit  nearly  in  the  middle,  else  the  boat  won't  trim,"  returned 
Laurie,  as  if  he  rather  liked  the  arrangement. 

Feeling  that  she  had  not  mended  matters  much,  Amy  took  the  proffered  third 
of  a  seat,  shook  her  hair  over  her  face,  and  accepted  an  oar.  She  rowed  as  well  as 
she  did  many  other  things  ;  and,  though  she  used  both  hands,  and  Laurie  but  one, 
the  oars  kept  time,  and  the  boat  went  smoothly  through  the  water. 

"  How  well  we  pull  together,  don't  we?"  said  Amy,  who  objected  to  silence 
just  then. 

"  So  well,  that  I  wish  we  might  always  pull  in  the  same  boat.  Will  you, 
Amy  ?  "  very  tenderly. 

"  Yes,  Laurie,"  very  low. 

Then  they  both  stopped  rowing,  and  unconsciously  added  a  pretty  little  tableau 
of  human  love  and  happiness  to  the  dissolving  views  reflected  in  the  lake. 

LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT. 


THE     WONDERFUL     TAR-BABY    STORY.  97 


THE     WONDERFUL     TAR-BABY     STORY. 

"DIDN'T  the  fox  never  catch  the  rabbit,  Uncle  Remus?"  asked  the  little  boy 
the  next  evening. 

"  He  come  mighty  nigh  it,  honey,  sho's  you  bawn  —  Brer  Fox  did.  One  day 
atter  Brer  Rabbit  fool  'im  wid  dat  calamus  root,  Brer  Fox  went  ter  wuk  en  got  'im 
some  tar,  en  mix  it  wid  some  turkentime,  en  fix  up  a  contrapshun  wat  he  call  a 
Tar-Baby,  en  he  tuck  dish  yer  Tar-Baby  en  he  sot  'er  in  de  big  road,  en  den  he  lay 
off  in  de  bushes  fer  ter  see  wat  de  news  wuz  gwineter  be.  En  he  didn't  hatter 
wait  long,  nudder,  kaze  bimeby  here  come  Brer  Rabbit  pacin'  down  de  road  — 
lippity-clippity,  clippity-lippity —  dez  ez  sassy  ez  a  jay  bird.  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low. 
Brer  Rabbit  come  prancin'  long  twel  he  spy  de  Tar-Baby,  en  den  he  fotch  up  on 
his  behime  legs  like  he  was  'stonished.  De  Tar-Baby,  she  sot  dar,  she  did,  en  Brer 
Fox,  he  lay  low. 

"  '  Mawnin*  !'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee —  'nice  wedder  dis  mawnin','  sezee. 

"Tar-Baby  ain't  sayin'  nuthin',  en  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low. 

" '  How  duz  yo'  sym'tums  seem  ter  segashuate  ? '  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee. 

"  Brer  Fox,  he  wink  his  eye  slow,  en  lay  low,  en  de  Tar-Baby,  she  ain't  sayin' 
nuthin'. 

"  'How  you  come  on,  den  ?  Is  you  deaf?'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee.  '  Kaze  if 
you  is,  I  kin  holler  louder,'  sezee. 

"  Tar-Baby  stay  still,  en  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low. 

" '  Youer  stuck  up,  dat's  w'at  you  is,'  says  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  'en  I'm  gwineter 
kyore  you,  dat's  w'at  I'm  a  gwineter  do,'  sezee. 

"  Brer  Fox,  he  sorter  chuckle  in  his  stummuck,  he  did,  but  Tar-Baby  ain't 
sayin'  nuthin'. 

"  '  I'm  gwineter  larn  you  howter  talk  ter  'specttubble  fokes  ef  hits  de  las'  ack,' 
sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee.  '  Ef  you  don't  take  off  dat  hat  en  tell  me  howdy,  I'm 
gwinter  bus'  you  wide  open,'  sezee. 

"  Tar-Baby  stay  still,  en  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low. 

"  Brer  Rabbit  keep  on  axin'  'im,  en  de  Tar-Baby,  she  keep  on  sayin'  nuthin', 
twel  present'y  Brer  Rabbit  draw  back  wid  his  fis',  he  did,  en  blip  he  tuck  er  side  er. 
de  head.  Right  dar's  whar  he  broke  his  merlasses  jug.  His  fis'  stuck,  en  he 
can't  pull  loose.  De  tar  hilt  him.  But  Tar-Baby,  she  stay  still,  en  Brer  Fox,  he 
lay  low. 

"  'Ef  you  don't  lemme  loose,  I'll  knock  you  agin,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  en  wid 
dat  he  fotch  'er  a  wipe  wid  de  udder  han',  en  dat  stuck.  Tar-Baby,  she  ain't 
sayin'  nuthin',  en  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low. 

"  '  Tu'n  me  loose,  fo'  I  kick  de  natal  stuffin'  outen  you,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee, 
but  de  Tar-Baby,  she  ain't  sayin'  nuthin'.  She  des  hilt  on,  en  den  Brer  Rabbit 
lose  de  use  er  his  feet  in  de  same  way.  Brer  Fox,  he  lay  low.  Den  Brer  Rabbit 
squall  out  dat  ef  de  Tar-Baby  don't  tu'n  'im  loose  he  butt  'er  cranksided.  En  den 


98  HO  W  MR.  RABBIT  WAS  TOO  SHARP  FOR  MR.  FOX. 

he  butted,  en  his  head  got  stuck.      Den  Brer  Fox,  he  sa'ntered  fort',  lookin'  des  ez 
innercent  ez  wunner  yo'  mammy's  mockin '-birds. 

"'Howdy,  Brer  Rabbit,'  sez  Brer  P"ox,  sezee.  'You  look  sorter  stuck  up  dis 
mawnin','  sezee,  en  den  he  rolled  on  de  groun',  en  laft  en  laft  twel  he  couldn't  laff 
no  mo'.  '  I  speck  you'll  take  dinner  wid  me  dis  time,  Brer  Rabbit.  I  done  laid  in 
some  calamus  root,  en  I  ain't  gwineter  take  no  skuse,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee." 

Here  Uncle  Remus  paused,  and  drew  a  two-pound  yam  out  of  the  ashes. 

"  Did  the  fox  eat  the  rabbit  ?  "  asked  the  little  boy  to  whom  the  story  had  been 
told. 

"  Dat's  all  de  fur  de  tale  goes,"  replied  the  old  man.  "  He  mout,  en  den  agin 
he  moutent.  Some  say  Jedge  B'ar  come  'long  en  loosed  'im —  some  say  he  didn't. 
I  hear  Miss  Sally  callin'.  You  better  run  'long." 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 


HOW     MR.     RABBIT     WAS     TOO     SHARP 
FOR     MR.     FOX. 

"  UNCLE  REMUS,"  said  the  little  boy  one  evening,  when  he  had  found  the  old 
man  with  little  or  nothing  to  do,  "did  the  fox  kill  and  eat  the  rabbit  when  he 
caught  him  with  the  Tar-Baby  ?  " 

"  Law,  honey,  ain't  I  tell  you  'bout  dat  ?  "  replied  the  old  darky,  chuckling 
slyly.  "  I  'clar  ter  grashus  I  ought  er  tole  you  dat,  but  old  man  Nod  wuz  ridin'  on 
my  eyeleds  'twel  a  leetle  mo'n  I'd  a  dis'member'd  my  own  name,  en  den  on  to  dat 
here  come  yo'  mammy  hollerin'  atter  you. 

"  Wat  I  tell  you  w'en  I  fus'  begin  ?  I  tole  you  Brer  Rabbit  wuz  a  monstus 
soon  beas'  ;  leas' ways  dat's  w'at  I  laid  out  fer  ter  tell  you.  Well,  den,  honey,  don't 
you  go  en  make  no  udder  kalkalashuns,  kaze  in  dem  days  Brer  Rabbit  en  his  family 
wuz  at  de  head  er  de  gang  w'en  enny  racket  wuz  on  han',  en  dar  dey  stayed.  'Fo' 
you  begins  fer  ter  wipe  yo'  eyes  'bout  Brer  Rabbit,  you  wait  en  see  whar'bouts 
Brer  Rabbit  gwineter  fetch  up  at.  But  dat's  needer  yer  ner  dar. 

"  Wen  Brer  Fox  fine  Brer  Rabbit  mixt  up  wid  de  Tar-Baby,  he  feel  mighty 
good,  en  he  roll  on  de  groun'  en  laff.  Bimeby  he  up'n  say,  sezee : 

"  '  Well,  I  speck  I  got  you  dis  time,  Brer  Rabbit,'  sezee  ;  '  maybe  I  ain't,  but  I 
speck  I  is.  You  been  runnin'  roun'  here  sassin'  atter  me  a  mighty  long  time,  but 
I  spec'  you  done  come  ter  de  een'  er  de  row.  You  bin  cuttin'  up  yo'  capers  en 
bouncin'  roun'  in  dis  naberhood  ontwel  you  come  ter  b'leeve  yo'se'f  de  boss  er  de 
whole  gang.  En  den  youer  allers  some'rs  whar  you  got  no  bizness,'  sez  Brer  Fox, 
sezee.  '  Who  ax  you  fer  ter  come  en  strike  up  a 'quaintence  wid  dish  yer  Tar- 
Baby  ?  En  who  stuck  you  up  dar  whar  you  iz  ?  Nobody  in  de  roun'  worril.  You 
des  tuck  en  jam  yo'se'f  on  dat  Tar-Baby  widout  waitin'  fer  enny  invite,'  sez  Brer 


HO  W  MR.  RABBIT  WAS  TOO  SHARP  FOR  MR.  FOX. 


99 


Fox,  sezee,  '  en  dar  you  is,  en  dar  you'll  stay  twel  I  fixes  up  a  bresh-pile  and  fires 
her  up,  kaze  I'm  gwineter  bobbycue  you  dis  day,  sho,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee. 

"Den  Brer  Rabbit  talk  mighty  'umble. 

"  '  I  don't  keer  w'at  you  do  wid  me,  Brer  Fox,'  sezee,  '  so  you  don't  fling  me  in 
dat  brier-patch.  Roas'  me,  Brer  Fox,'  sezee,  'but  don't  fling  me  in  that  brier- 
patch,'  sezee. 

" '  Hit's  so  much  trouble  fer  ter  kindle  a  fier,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee,  'dat  I  speck 
I'll  hatter  hang  you,'  sezee. 

"  '  Hang  me  des  ez  high  as  you  please,  Brer  Fox,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  '  but 
do  fer  de  Lord's  sake  don't  fling  me  in  dat  brier-patch,'  sezee. 

"'  I  ain't  got  no  string,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee,  'en  now  I  speck  I'll  hatter  drown 
you,'  sezee. 

" '  Drown  me  des  ez  deep  ez  you  please,  Brer  Fox,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  '  but 
do  don't  fling  me  in  dat  brier-patch,'  sezee. 

'"Dey  ain't  no  water  nigh,'  sez  Brer  Fox,  sezee,  'en  now  I  speck  I'll  hatter 
skin  you,'  sezee. 

"'Skin  me,  Brer  Fox,'  sez  Brer  Rabbit,  sezee,  'snatch  out  my  eyeballs,  t'ar  out 
my  years  by  de  roots,  en  cut  off  my  legs,'  sezee,  '  but  do  please,  Brer  Fox,  don't 
fling  me  in  dat  brier-patch,'  sezee. 

"  Co'se  Brer  Fox  vvanter  hurt  Brer  Rabbit  bad  ez  he  kin,  so  he  kotch  'im  by 
de  behine  legs  en  slung  'im  right  in  the  middle  er  de  brier-patch.  Dar  wuz  a  con- 
siderbul  flutter  whar  Brer  Rabbit  struck  de  bushes,  en  Brer  Fox  sorter  hang  'roun' 
fer  ter  see  w'at  wuz  gwineter  happen.  Bimeby  he  hear  somebody  call  'im,  en  way 
up  de  hill  he  see  Brer  Rabbit  settin'  cross-legged  on  a  chinkapin  log  koamin'  de 
pitch  outen  his  har  wid  a  chip.  Den  Brer  Fox  know  dat  he  bin  swop  off  mighty 
bad.  Brer  Rabbit  was  bleedzed  fer  ter  fling  back  some  er  his  sass,  en  he  holler 
out  : 

"  '  Bred  en  bawn  in  a  brier-patch,  Brer  Fox  —  bred  en  bawn  in  a  brier-patch  ! ' 
en  wid  dat  he  skip  out  des  ez  lively  ez  a  cricket  in  de  embers." 

JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 


ioo  TORTURE. 


TORTURE. 

I  NOW  lay  upon  my  back,  and  at  full  length,  on  a  species  of  low  framework  of 
wood.  To  this  I  was  securely  bound  by  a  long  strap  resembling  a  surcingle.  It 
passed  in  many  convolutions  about  my  limbs  and  body,  leaving  at  liberty  only  my 
head,  and  my  left  arm  to  such  an  extent  that  I  could  by  dint  of  much  exertion  sup- 
ply myself  with  food  from  an  earthen  dish  which  lay  by  my  side  on  the  floor.  I 
saw  to  my  horror  that  the  pitcher  had  been  removed.  I  say  to  my  horror,  for  I 
was  consumed  with  intolerable  thirst.  This  thirst  it  appeared  to  be  the  design  of 
my  persecutors  to  stimulate,  for  the  food  in  the  dish  was  meat  pungently  seasoned. 

Looking  upward  I  surveyed  the  ceiling  of  my  prison.  It  was  some  thirty  or 
forty  feet  overhead,  and  constructed  much  as  the  side  walls.  In  one  of  its  panels 
a  very  singular  figure  riveted  my  whole  attention.  It  was  the  painted  figure  of 
Time  as  he  is  commonly  represented,  save  that  in  lieu  of  a  scythe  he  held  what  at 
a  casual  glance  I  supposed  to  be  the  pictured  image  of  a  huge  pendulum,  such  as 
we  see  on  antique  clocks.  There  was  something,  however,  in  the  appearance  of 
this  machine  which  caused  me  to  regard  it  more  attentively.  While  I  gazed 
directly  upward  at  it  (for  its  position  was  immediately  over  my  own),  I  fancied  that 
I  saw  it  in  motion.  In  an  instant  afterward  the  fancy  was  confirmed.  Its  sweep 
was  brief,  and  of  course  slow.  I  watched  it  for  some  minutes,  somewhat  in  fear 
but  more  in  wonder.  Wearied  at  length  with  observing  its  dull  movement,  I 
turned  my  eyes  upon  the  other  objects  in  the  cell. 

A  slight  noise  attracted  my  notice,  and  looking  to  the  floor,  I  saw  several 
enormous  rats  traversing  it.  They  had  issued  from  the  well  which  lay  just  within 
view  to  my  right.  Even  then  while  I  gazed,  they  came  up  in  troops,  hurriedly, 
with  ravenous  eyes,  allured  by  the  scent  of  the  meat.  From  this  it  required  much 
effort  and  attention  to  scare  them  away. 

It  might  have  been  half  an  hour,  perhaps  even  an  hour  (for  I  could  take  but  imper- 
fect note  of  time),  before  I  again  cast  my  eyes  upward.  What  I  then  saw  confounded 
and  amazed  me.  The  sweep  of  the  pendulum  had  increased  in  extent  by  nearly  a 
yard.  As  a  natural  consequence,  its  velocity  was  much  greater.  But  what  mainly, 
disturbed  me  was  the  idea  that  it  had  perceptibly  descended.  I  now  observed, 
with  what  horror  it  is  needless  to  say,  that  its  nether  extremity  was  formed  of  a 
crescent  of  glittering  steel,  about  a  foot  in  length  from  horn  to  horn  ;  the  horns 
upward,  and  the  under  edge  evidently  as  keen  as  that  of  a  razor.  Like  a  razor 
also  it  seemed  massy  and  heavy,  tapering  from  the  edge  into  a  solid  and  broad 
structure  above.  It  was  appended  to  a  weighty  rod  of  brass,  and  the  whole  hissed 
as  it  swung  through  the  air. 

I  could  no  longer  doubt  the  doom  prepared  for  me  by  monkish   ingenuity  in 

torture.     My  cognizance  of  the  pit  had  become  known  to  the  inquisitorial  agents 

-  the  pit,  whose  horrors  had  been  destined  for  so  bold  a  recusant  as  myself,  the  pit, 

typical  of  hell,  and  regarded  by  rumor  as  the  Ultima  Thule  of  all  their  punishments. 


TORTURE.  ioi 

The  plunge  into  this  pit  I  had  avoided  by  the  merest  of  accidents,  and  I  knew  that 
surprise  or  entrapment  into  torment  formed  an  important  portion  of  all  the  gro- 
tesquerie  of  these  dungeon  deaths.  Having  failed  to  fall,  it  was  no  part  of  the 
demon  plan  to  hurl  me  into  the  abyss,  and  thus  (there  being  no  alternative)  a 
different  and  a  milder  destruction  awaited  me.  Milder !  I  half  smiled  in  my 
agony  as  I  thought  of  such  application  of  such  a  term. 

What  boots  it  to  tell  of  the  long,  long  hours  of  horror  more  than  mortal,  during 
which  I  counted  the  rushing  oscillations  of  the  steel  !  Inch  by  inch — line  by  line 

—  with  a  descent  only  appreciable  as  intervals  that  seemed  ages — down  and  still 
down  it  came  !     Days  passed  —  it  might  have  been  that  many  days  passed  —  ere 
it  swept  so  closely  over  me  as  to  fan  me  with  its  acrid  breath.     The  odor  of  the 
sharp  steel  forced  itself  into  my  nostrils.     I  prayed  —  I  wearied  heaven  with  my 
prayer  for  its  more  speedy  descent.      I   grew  frantically  mad,  and   struggled   to 
force  myself  upward  against  the  sweep  of  the  fearful  scimitar.     And  then  I  fell 
suddenly  calm,  and  lay  smiling  at  the  glittering  death  as  a  child  at  some  rare 
bauble. 

There  was  another  interval  of  utter  insensibility ;  it  was  brief,  for  upon  again 
lapsing  into  life  there  had  been  no  perceptible  descent  in  the  pendulum.  But  it 
might  have  been  long  —  for  I  knew  there  were  demons  who  took  note  of  my 
swoon,  and  who  could  have  arrested  the  vibration  at  pleasure.  Upon  my  recovery, 
too,  I  felt  very  — oh  !  inexpressibly  —  sick  and  weak,  as  if  through  long  inanition. 
Even  amid  the  agonies  of  that  period  the  human  nature  craved  food.  With  pain- 
ful effort  I  outstretched  my  left  arm  as  far  as  my  bonds  permitted,  and  took  pos- 
session of  the  small  remnant  which  had  been  spared  me  by  the  rats.  As  I  put  a 
portion  of  it  within  my  lips  there  rushed  to  my  mind  a  half-formed  thought  of  joy 

—  of  hope.     Yet  what  business  had  I  with  hope  ?     It  was,  as  I  say,  a  half-formed 
thought  —  man  has  many  such,  which  are  never  completed.     I  felt  that  it  was  of 
joy  —  of  hope;  but  I  felt  also  that  it  had  perished  in  its  formation.     In  vain  I 
struggled  to  perfect  —  to  regain  it.     Long  suffering  had  nearly  annihilated  all  my 
ordinary  powers  of  mind.     I  was  an  imbecile  — an  idiot. 

The  vibration  of  the  pendulum  was  at  right  angles  to  my  length.  I  saw  that 
the  crescent  was  designed  to  cross  the  region  of  the  heart.  It  would  fray  the  serge 
of  my  robe  ;  it  would  return  and  repeat  its  operations  —  again  — and  again.  Not- 
withstanding its  terrifically  wide  sweep  (some  thirty  feet  or  more)  and  the  hissing 
vigor  of  its  descent,  sufficient  to  sunder  these  very  walls  of  iron,  still  the  fraying  of 
my  robe  would  be  all  that  for  several  minutes  it  would  accomplish  ;  and  at  this 
thought  I  paused.  I  dared  not  go  farther  than  this  reflection.  I  dwelt  upon  it 
with  a  pertinacity  of  attention — as  if,  in  so  dwelling,  I  could  arrest  here  the 
descent  of  the  steel. 

I  forced  myself  to  ponder  upon  the  sound  of  the  crescent  as  it  should  pass 
across  the  garment  —  upon  the  peculiar  thrilling  sensation  which  the  friction  of 
cloth  produces  on  the  nerves.  I  pondered  upon  all  this  frivolity  until  my  teeth 
were  on  edge. 

Down  —  steadily  down  it  crept.     I  took  a  frenzied  pleasure  in  contrasting  its 


102  TORTURE. 

downward  with  its  lateral  velocity.  To  the  right  —  to  the  left  —  far  and  wide  — 
with  the  shriek  of  a  damned  spirit  !  to  my  heart  with  the  stealthy  pace  of  a  tiger ! 
I  alternately  laughed  and  howled,  as  the  one  or  the  other  idea  grew  predominant. 

Down  —  certainly,  relentlessly  down  !  It  vibrated  within  three  inches  of  my 
bosom  !  I  struggled  violently  —  furiously  —  to  free  my  left  arm.  This  was  free 
only  from  the  elbow  to  the  hand.  I  could  reach  the  latter  from  the  platter  beside 
me  to  my  mouth  with  great  effort,  but  no  farther.  Could  I  have  broken  the  fasten- 
ings above  the  elbow,  I  would  have  seized  and  attempted  to  arrest  the  pendulum. 
I  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  arrest  an  avalanche  ! 

Down  —  still  unceasingly  —  still  inevitably  down  !  I  gasped  and  struggled  at 
each  vibration.  I  shrunk  convulsively  at  its  every  sweep.  My  eyes  followed  its 
outward  or  upward  whirls  with  the  eagerness  of  the  most  unmeaning  despair  ;  they 
closed  themselves  spasmodically  at  the  descent,  although  death  would  have  been  a 
relief,  O,  how  unspeakable  !  Still  I  quivered  in  every  nerve  to  think  how  slight 
a  sinking  of  the  machinery  would  precipitate  that  keen  glistening  axe  upon  my 
bosom.  It  was  hope  that  prompted  the  nerve  to  quiver —  the  frame  to  shrink.  It 
was  hope  —  the  hope  that  triumphs  on  the  rack  —  that  whispers  to  the  death-con- 
demned even  in  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition. 

I  saw  that  some  ten  or  twelve  vibrations  would  bring  the  steel  in  actual  contact 
with  my  robe,  and  with  this  observation  there  suddenly  came  over  my  spirit  all  the 
keen  collected  calmness  of  despair.  For  the  first  time  during  many  hours,  or  per- 
haps days,  I  thought.  It  now  occurred  to  me  that  the  bandage  or  surcingle  which 
enveloped  me  was  unique.  I  was  tied  by  no  separate  cord.  The  first  stroke  of 
the  razor-like  crescent  athwart  any  portion  of  the  band  would  so  detach  it  that  it 
might  be  unwound  from  my  person  by  means  of  my  left  hand.  But  how  fearful  in 
that  case  the  proximity  of  the  steel  !  The  result  of  the  slightest  struggle  how 
deadly  !  Was  it  likely,  moreover,  that  the  minions  of  the  torturer  had  not  fore- 
seen and  provided  for  this  possibility  ?  Was  it  probable  that  the  bandage  crossed 
my  bosom  in  the  track  of  the  pendulum  ?  Dreading  to  find  my  faint,  and,  as  it 
seemed,  my  last  hope  frustrated,  I  so  far  elevated  my  head  as  to  obtain  a  distinct 
view  of  my  breast.  The  surcingle  enveloped  my  limbs  and  body  close  in  all  direc- 
tions save  in  the  path  of  the  destroying  crescent. 

Scarcely  had  I  dropped  my  head  back  into  its  original  position  when  there 
flashed  upon  my  mind  what  I  cannot  better  describe  than  as  the  unformed  half  of 
that  idea  of  deliverance  to  which  I  have  previously  alluded,  and  of  which  a  moiety 
only  floated  indeterminately  through  my  brain  when  I  raised  my  food  to  my  burn- 
ing lips.  The  whole  thought  was  now  present  —  feeble,  scarcely  sane,  scarcely 
definite,  but  still  entire.  I  proceeded  at  once,  with  the  nervous  energy  of  despair, 
to  attempt  its  execution. 

For  many  hours  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  low  framework  upon  which  I  lay 
had  been  literally  swarming  with  rats.  They  were  wild,  bold,  ravenous,  their  red  eyes 
glaring  upon  me  as  if  they  waited  but  for  motionlessness  on  my  part  to  make  me 
their  prey.  "  To  what  food,"  I  thought,  "have  they  been  accustomed  in  the  well  ?" 

They  had  devoured,  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  prevent  them,  all  but  a  small 


TO     THOMAS    MURRA  Y.  103 

remnant  of  the  contents  of  the  dish.  I  had  fallen  into  an  habitual  see-saw  or  wave 
of  the  hand  about  the  platter  ;  and  at  length  the  unconscious  uniformity  of  the 
movement  deprived  it  of  effect.  In  their  voracity  the  vermin  frequently  fastened 
their  sharp  fangs  in  my  fingers.  With  the  particles  of  the  oily  and  spicy  viand 
which  now  remained,  I  thoroughly  rubbed  the  bandage  wherever  I  could  reach  it  ; 
then,  raising  my  hand  from  the  floor,  I  lay  breathlessly  still. 

At  first  the  ravenous  animals  were  startled  and  terrified  at  the  change  —  at  the 
cessation  of  movement.  They  shrank  alarmedly  back  ;  many  sought  the  well. 
But  this  was  only  for  a  moment.  I  had  not  counted  in  vain  upon  their  voracity. 
Observing  that  I  remained  without  motion,  one  or  two  of  the  boldest  leaped  upon 
the  framework  and  smelt  at  the  surcingle.  This  seemed  a  signal  for  a  general 
rush.  Forth  from  the  well  they  hurried  in  fresh  troops.  They  clung  to  the  wood, 
they  overran  it,  and  leaped  in  hundreds  upon  my  person.  The  measured  move- 
ment of  the  pendulum  disturbed  them  not  at  all.  Avoiding  its  strokes,  they  busied 
themselves  with  the  anointed  bandage.  They  pressed,  they  swarmed  upon  me  in 
ever  accumulating  heaps.  They  writhed  upon  my  throat ;  their  cold  lips  sought 
my  own  ;  I  was  half  stifled  by  their  thronging  pressure ;  disgust,  for  which  the 
world  has  no  name,  swelled  my  bosom,  and  chilled  with  heavy  clamminess  my 
heart.  Yet  one  minute  and  I  felt  that  the  struggle  would  be  over.  Plainly  I  per- 
ceived the  loosening  of  the  bandage.  I  knew  that  in  more  than  one  place  it  must 
be  already  severed.  With  more  than  human  resolution  I  lay  still. 

Nor  had  I  erred  in  my  calculations,  nor  had  I  endured  in  vain.  I  at  length 
felt  that  I  was  free.  The  surcingle  hung  in  ribands  from  my  body.  But  the  stroke 
of  the  pendulum  already  pressed  upon  my  bosom.  It  had  divided  the  serge  of  the 
robe.  It  had  cut  through  the  linen  beneath.  Twice  again  it  swung  and  a  sharp 
sense  of  pain  shot  through  every  nerve.  But  the  moment  of  escape  had  arrived. 
At  a  wave  of  my  hand  my  deliverers  hurried  tumultuously  away.  With  a  steady 
movement,  cautious,  sidelong,  shrinking,  and  slow,  I  slid  from  the  embrace  of  the 
bandage  and  beyond  the  reach  of  the  scimitar.  For  the  moment,  at  least,  I  was 
free. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


TO     THOMAS     MURRAY. 

O,  TOM,  what  a  foolish  flattering  creature  thou  art !  To  talk  of  future  emi- 
nence in  connection  with  the  literary  history  of  the  nineteenth  century  to  such  a 
one  as  me  !  Alas  !  my  good  lad,  when  I  and  all  my  fancies  and  reveries  and  specu- 
lations shall  have  been  swept  over  with  the  besom  of  oblivion,  the  literary  history 
of  no  century  will  feel  itself  the  worse.  Yet  think  not,  because  I  talk  thus,  I  am 


104 


TO     HIS    MOTHER. 


careless  of  literary  fame.     No  ;  Heaven  knows  that  ever  since  I  have  been  able  to 
form  a  wish,  the  wish  of  being  known  has  been  the  foremost. 

O  Fortune !  thou  that  givest  unto  each  his  portion  in  this  dirty  planet,  bestow 
(if  it  shall  please  thee)  coronets,  and  crowns,  and  principalities,  and  purses,  and 
pudding,  and  powers  upon  the  great  and  noble  and  fat  ones  of  the  earth.  Grant 
me  that,  with  a  heart  of  independence  unyielding  to  thy  favors  and  unbending  to 
thy  frowns,  I  may  attain  to  literary  fame ;  and  though  starvation  be  my  lot,  I  will 
smile  that  I  have  not  been  born  a  king. 

But  alas  !  my  dear  Murray,  what  am  I,  or  what  are  you,  or  what  is  any  other 
poor  unfriended  stripling  in  the  ranks  of  learning  ?  .  .  . 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


TO     HIS     MOTHER. 


I  WILL  begin  my  letter  in  the 
midst  of  my  agony  of  expectation  and 
fear.  I  finished  my  examination  to-day 
at  two  o'clock.  At  eight  to-night  the 
decision  takes  place,  so  that  my  next 
three  quarters  of  an  hour  will  be 
dreadful.  As  I  do  not  know  how  the 
other  schools  have  done,  my  hope  of 
success  can  depend  upon  nothing, 
except  that  I  think  I  have  done  pretty 
well,  better,  perhaps,  from  comparing 
notes,  than  the  rest  of  the  Rugby  men. 
O,  the  joy  if  I  do  get  it  !  and  the  dis- 
appointment if  I  do  not.  And  from 
two  of  us  trying  at  once,  I  fear  the 
blow  to  the  school  would  be  dreadful 
if  none  of  us  get  it.  We  had  to  work 
the  second  day  as  hard  as  on  the  first, 
on  the  third  and  fourth  not  so  hard, 
nor  to-day  —  Horace  to  turn  into  En- 
glish verse,  which  was  good  for  me  ; 
a  divinity  and  a  mathematical  paper, 
in  which  I  hope  my  copiousness  in  the 
first  made  up  for  my  scantiness  in 
the  second.  Last  night  I  dined  at 

Magdalen,  which  is  enough  of  itself  to  turn  one's  head  upside  down,  so  very  magni- 
ficent.    ...     I  will  go  on  now.     We  all  assembled  in  the  hall,  and  had  to  wait  an 


DEAN    STANLEY. 


NIL    NISI    BONUM. 


I05 


hour,  the  room  getting  fuller  and  fuller  with  Rugby  Oxonians  crowding  in  to  hear  the 
result.  Every  time  the  door  opened  my  heart  jumped,  but  many  times  it  was  nothing. 
At  last  the  dean  appeared  in  his  white  robes,  and  moved  up  to  the  head  of  the  table. 
He  began  a  long  preamble  —  that  they  were  well  satisfied  with  all,  and  that  those  who 
were  disappointed  were  many  in  comparison  with  those  who  were  successful,  etc. 
All  this  time  every  one  was  listening  with  the  most  intense  eagerness,  and  I  almost 
bit  my  lips  off  till  —  The  successful  candidates  are  —  Mr.  Stanley — I  gave  a  great 
jump,  and  there  was  a  half  shout  amongst  the  Rugby  men.  The  next  was  Lons- 
dale  from  Eton.  The  dean  then  took  me  into  the  chapel  where  the  Master  and  all 
the  Fellows  were,  and  there  I  swore  that  I  would  not  reveal  the  secrets,  disobey 
the  statutes,  or  dissipate  the  wealth  of  the  college.  I  was  then  made  to  kneel  on 
the  steps,  and  admitted  to  the  rank  of  scholar  and  Exhibitioner  of  Balliol  College, 
nomine,  Patris,  Fillii,  et  Spiritus.  I  then  wrote  my  name,  and  it  was  finished.  We 
start  to-day  in  a  chaise  and  four  for  the  glory  of  it.  You  may  think  of  my  joy,  the 
honor  of  Rugby  is  saved,  and  I  am  a  Scholar  of  Balliol ! 

ARTHUR  PENRHYN  STANLEY. 


NIL     NISI     BONUM. 

IN  America  the  love  and  regard  for  Irving  was  a  national  sentiment.  Party 
wars  are  perpetually  raging  there,  and  are  carried  on  by  the  press  with  a  rancor 
and  fierceness  against  individuals  which  exceed  British,  almost  Irish,  virulence. 
It  seemed  to  me,  during  a  year's  travel  in  the  country,  as  if  no  one  ever  aimed  a 
blow  at  Irving.  All  men  held  their  hand  from  that  harmless,  friendly  peacemaker. 
I  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  him  at  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and 
Washington,  and  remarked  how  in  every  place  he  was  honored  and  welcome. 
Every  large  city  has  its  "  Irving  House."  The  country  takes  pride  in  the  fame  of 
its  men  of  letters.  The  gate  of  his  own  charming  little  domain  on  the  beautiful 
Hudson  River  was  forever  swinging  before  visitors  who  came  to  him.  He  shut 
out  no  one.  I  had  seen  many  pictures  of  his  house,  and  read  descriptions  of  it,  in 
both  of  which  it  was  treated  with  a  not  unusual  American  exaggeration.  It  was  but 
a  pretty  little  cabin  of  a  place ;  the  gentleman  of  the  press  who  took  notes  of  the 
place,  whilst  his  kind  old  host  was  sleeping,  might  have  visited  the  whole  house  in 
a  couple  of  minutes.  And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so  small,  when  Mr. 
Irving's  books  were  sold  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  nay,  millions  ;  when  his  profits 
were  known  to  be  large,  and  the  habits  of  life  of  the  good  old  bachelor  were  notori- 
ously modest  and  simple  ?  He  had  loved  once  in  life.  The  lady  he  loved  died  ; 
and  he,  whom  all  the  world  loved,  never  sought  to  replace  her.  I  can't  say  how 
much  the  thought  of  that  fidelity  has  touched  me.  Does  not  the  very  cheerfulness 
of  his  after-life  add  to  the  pathos  of  that  untold  story  ?  To  grieve  always  was  not 


io6  LORN  A    DO  ONE. 

in  his  nature;  or,  when  he  had  his  sorrow,  to  bring  all  the  world  in  to  condole  with 
him  and  bemoan  it.  Deep  and  quiet  he  lays  the  love  of  his  heart,  and  buries  it ; 
and  grass  and  flowers  grow  over  the  scarred  ground  in  due  time. 

Irving  had  such  a  small  house  and  such  narrow  rooms,  because  there  was  a 
great  number  of  people  to  occupy  them.  He  could  only  afford  to  keep  one  old 
horse  (wnich,  lazy  and  aged  as  it  was,  managed  once  or  twice  to  run  away  with 
that  careless  old  horseman).  He  could  only  afford  to  give  plain  sherry  to  that 
amiable  British  paragraph-monger  from  New  York,  who  saw  the  patriarch  asleep 
over  his  modest,  blameless  cup,  and  fetched  the  public  into  his  private  chamber  to 
look  at  him.  Irving  could  only  live  very  modestly,  because  the  wifeless,  childless 
man  had  a  number  of  children  to  whom  he  was  as  a  father.  He  had  as  many  as 
nine  nieces,  I  am  told  —  I  saw  two  of  these  ladies  at  his  house  —  with  all  of  whom 
the  dear  old  man  had  shared  the  produce  of  his  labor  and  genius. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


LORNA     DOONE. 

BUT  when  the  weather  changed  in  earnest,  and  the  frost  was  gone,  and  the 
southwest  wind  blew  softly,  and  the  lambs  were  at  play  with  the  daisies,  it  was 
more  than  I  could  do  to  keep  from  thought  of  Lorna.  For  now  the  fields  were 
spread  with  growth,  and  the  waters  clad  with  sunshine,  and  light  and  shadow,  step 
by  step,  wandered  over  the  furzy  cleves.  All  the  sides  of  the  hilly  wood  were 
gathered  in  and  out  with  green,  silver-gray,  or  russet  points,  according  to  the  sev- 
eral manner  of  the  trees  beginning.  And  if  one  stood  beneath  an  elm,  with  any 
heart  to  look  at  it,  lo !  all  the  ground  was  strewn  with  flakes  (too  small  to  know 
their  meaning),  and  all  the  sprays  above  were  rasped  and  trembling  with  a  redness. 
And  so  I  stopped  beneath  the  tree,  and  carved  L.  D.  upon  it,  and  wondered  at  the 
buds  of  thought  that  seemed  to  swell  inside  me. 

The  upshot  of  it  all  was  this,  that  as  no  Lorna  came  to  me,  except  in  dreams 
or  fancy,  and  as  my  life  was  not  worth  living  without  constant  sign  of  her,  forth  I 
must  again  to  find  her,  and  say  more  than  a  man  can  tell.  Therefore,  without 
waiting  longer  for  the  moving  of  the  spring,  dressed  I  was  in  grand  attire  (so  far 
as  I  had  gotten  it),  and  thinking  my  appearance  good,  although  with  doubts  about 
it  (being  forced  to  dress  in  the  hay-tallat),  round  the  corner  of  the  wood-stack  went 
I  very  knowingly  —  for  Lizzie's  eyes  were  wondrous  sharp  —  and  then  I  was  sure 
of  meeting  none  who  would  care  or  dare  to  speak  of  me. 

It  lay  upon  my  conscience  often  that  I  had  not  made  dear  Annie  secret  to  this 
history ;  although  in  all  things  I  could  trust  her,  and  she  loved  me  like  a  lamb. 
Many  and  many  a  time  I  tried,  and  more  than  once  began  the  thing  ;  but  there 
came  a  dryness  in  my  throat,  and  a  knocking  under  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  and  a 


LORN  A    DO  ONE.  107 

longing  to  put  it  off  again,  as  perhaps  might  be  the  wisest.  And  then  I  would 
remember  too  that  I  had  no  right  to  speak  of  Lorna  as  if  she  were  common 
property. 

This  time  I  longed  to  take  my  gun,  and  was  half  resolved  to  do  so ;  because  it 
seemed  so  hard  a  thing  to  be  shot  at,  and  have  no  chance  of  shooting  ;  but  when 
I  came  to  remember  the  steepness  and  the  slippery  nature  of  the  water-side,  there 
seemed  but  little  likelihood  of  keeping  dry  the  powder.  Therefore  I  was  armed 
with  nothing  but  a  good  stout  holly  staff,  seasoned  well  for  many  a  winter  in  our 
back  kitchen  chimney. 

Although  my  heart  was  leaping  high  with  the  prospect  of  some  adventure,  and 
the  fear  of  meeting  Lorna,  I  could  not  but  be  gladdened  by  the  softness  of  the 
weather,  and  the  welcome  way  of  everything.  There  was  that  power  all  round, 
that  power  and  that  goodness,  which  make  us  come,  as  it  were,  outside  our  bodily 
selves  to  share  them.  Over  and  beside  us  breathes  the  joy  of  hope  and  promise ; 
under  foot  are  troubles  past ;  in  the  distance  bowering  newness  tempts  us  ever 
forward.  We  quicken  with  largesse  of  life,  and  spring  with  vivid  mystery. 

And  in  good  sooth,  I  had  to  spring,  and  no  mystery  about  it,  ere  ever  I  got  to 
the  top  of  the  rift  leading  into  Doone  Glade.  For  the  stream  was  rushing  down  in 
strength,  and  raving  at  every  corner ;  a  mort  of  rain  having  fallen  last  night,  and 
no  wind  come  to  wipe  it.  However,  I  reached  the  head  ere  dark  with  more  diffi- 
culty than  danger,  and  sat  in  a  place  which  comforted  my  back  and  legs  desirably. 

Thereupon  I  grew  so  happy  at  being  on  dry  land  again,  and  come  to  look  for 
Lorna,  with  pretty  trees  around  me,  that  what  did  I  do  but  fall  asleep  with  the 
holly-stick  in  front  of  me  and  my  best  coat  sunk  in  a  bed  of  moss,  with  wood  and 
water-sorrel.  Mayhap  I  had  not  done  so,  nor  yet  enjoyed  the  spring  so  much,  if 
so  be  I  had  not  taken  three  parts  of  a  gallon  of  cider  at  home,  at  Plover's  Barrows, 
because  of  the  lowness  and  sinking  ever  since  I  met  Mother  Melldrum. 

There  was  a  little  runnel  going  softly  down  beside  me,  falling  from  the  upper 
rock  by  the  means  of  moss  and  grass,  as  if  it  feared  to  make  a  noise,  and  had  a 
mother  sleeping.  Now  and  then  it  seemed  to  stop,  in  fear  of  its  own  dropping,  and 
waiting  for  some  orders  ;  and  the  blades  of  grass  that  straightened  to  it  turned  their 
points  a  little  way,  and  offered  their  allegiance  to  wind  instead  of  water.  Yet 
before  their  carkled  edges  bent  more  than  a  driven  saw,  down  the  water  came 
again,  with  heavy  drops  and  pats  of  running,  and  bright  anger  at  neglect. 

This  was  very  pleasant  to  me,  now  and  then,  to  gaze  at,  blinking  as  the  water 
blinked,  and  falling  back  to  sleep  again.  Suddenly  my  sleep  was  broken  by  a 
shade  cast  over  me  ;  between  me  and  the  low  sunlight  Lorna  Doone  was  standing. 

"  Master  Ridd,  are  you  mad  ?"  she  said,  and  took  my  hand  to  move  me. 

"Not  mad,  but  half  asleep,"  I  answered,  feigning  not  to  notice  her,  that  so  she 
might  keep  hold  of  me. 

"  Come  away,  come  away,  if  you  care  for  life.  The  patrol  will  be  here  directly. 
Be  quick,  Master  Ridd,  let  me  hide  thee." 

"I  will  not  stir  a  step,"  said  I,  though  being  in  the  greatest  fright  that  might 
be  well  imagined,  "unless  you  call  me  'John." 


io8  LORNA    DO  ONE. 

"  Well,  John,  then  —  Master  John  Ridd,  be  quick,  if  you  have  any  to  care  for 
you." 

"I  have  many  that  care  for  me,"  I  said,  just  to  let  her  know ;  "and  I  will  fol- 
low you,  Mistress  Lorna :  albeit  without  any  hurry,  unless  there  be  peril  to  more 
than  me." 

Without  another  word  she  led  me,  though  with  many  timid  glances  toward  the 
upper  valley,  to,  and  into,  her  little  bower,  where  the  inlet  through  the  rock  was. 
I  am  almost  sure  that  I  spoke  before  (though  I  cannot  now  go  seek  for  it,  and  my 
memory  is  but  a  worn-out  tub)  of  a  certain  deep  and  perilous  pit,  in  which  I  was 
like  to  drown  myself  through  hurry  and  fright  of  boyhood.  And  even  then  I  won- 
dered greatly,  and  was  vexed  with  Lorna  for  sending  me  in  that  heedless  manner 
into  such  an  entrance. 

But  now  it  was  clear  that  she  had  been  right,  and  the  fault  mine  own  entirely ; 
for  the  entrance  to  the  pit  was  only  to  be  found  by  seeking  it.  Inside  the  niche 
of  native  stone,  the  plainest  thing  of  all  to  see,  at  any  rate  by  daylight,  was  the 
stairway  hewn  from  rock,  and  leading  up  the  mountain,  by  means  of  which  I  had 
escaped,  as  before  related.  To  the  right  side  of  this  was  the  mouth  of  the  pit, 
still  looking  very  formidable  ;  though  Lorna  laughed  at  my  fear  of  it,  for  she  drew 
her  water  thence.  But  on  the  left  was  a  narrow  crevice,  very  difficult  to  espy, 
and  having  a  sweep  of  gray  ivy  laid,  like  a  slouching  beaver,  over  it.  A  man  here 
coming  from  the  brightness  of  the  outer  air,  with  eyes  dazed  by  the  twilight,  would 
never  think  of  seeing  this  and  following  it  to  its  meaning. 

Lorna  raised  the  screen  for  me,  but  I  had  much  ado  to  pass,  on  account  of  bulk 
and  stature.  Instead  of  being  proud  of  my  size  (as  it  seemed  to  me  she  ought  to 
be),  Lorna  laughed  so  quietly  that  I  was  ready  to  knock  my  head  or  elbows  against 
anything,  and  say  no  more  about  it.  However,  I  got  through  at  last  without  a 
word  of  compliment,  and  broke  into  the  pleasant  room,  the  lone  retreat  of  Lorna. 

The  chamber  was  of  unhewn  rock,  round,  as  near  might  be,  eighteen  or  twenty 
feet  across,  and  gay  with  rich  variety  of  fern  and  moss  and  lichen.  The  fern  was 
in  its  winter  still,  or  coiling  for  the  spring-tide  ;  but  moss  was  in  abundant  life, 
some  feathering,  and  some  gobleted,  and  some  with  fringe  of  red  to  it.  Overhead, 
there  was  no  ceiling  but  the  sky  itself,  flaked  with  little  clouds  of  April  whitely 
wandering  over  it.  The  floor  was  made  of  soft,  low  grass,  mixed  with  moss  and 
primroses ;  and  in  a  niche  of  shelter  moved  the  delicate  wood-sorrel.  Here  and 
there,  around  the  sides,  were  "  chairs  of  living  stone,"  as  some  Latin  writer  says, 
whose  name  has  quite  escaped  me  ;  and  in  the  midst  a  tiny  spring  arose,  with 
crystal  beads  in  it,  and  a  soft  voice  as  of  a  laughing  dream,  and  dimples  like  a 
sleeping  babe.  Then  after  going  round  a  little,  with  surprise  of  daylight,  the  water 
overwelled  the  edge,  and  softly  went  through  lines  of  light  to  shadows  and  an  un- 
told bourne. 

While  I  was  gazing  at  all  these  things  with  wonder  and  some  sadness,  Lorna 
turned  upon  me  lightly  (as  her  manner  was)  and  said : 

"  Where  are  the  new-laid  eggs,  Master  Ridd  ?  Or  hath  blue  hen  ceased 
laying  ? " 


LORN  A    DO  ONE.  109 

I  did  not  altogether  like  the  way  in  which  she  said  it,  with  a  sort  of  a  dialect, 
as  if  my  speech  could  be  laughed  at. 

"  Here  be  some,"  I  answered,  speaking  as  if  in  spite  of  her.  "  I  would  have 
brought  thee  twice  as  many,  but  that  I  feared  to  crush  them  in  the  narrow  ways, 
Mistress  Lorna." 

And  so  I  laid  her  out  two  dozen  upon  the  moss  of  the  rock  ledge,  unwinding 
the  wisp  of  hay  from  each  as  it  came  safe  out  of  my  pocket. 

Lorna  looked  with  growing  wonder,  as  I  added  one  to  one  ;  and  when  I  had 
placed  them  side  by  side,  and  bidden  her  now  to  tell  them,  to  my  amazement  what 
did  she  do  but  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  ! 

"What  have  I  done?"  I  asked,  with  shame,  scarce  daring  even  to  look  at  her, 
because  her  grief  was  not  like  Annie's  —  a  thing  that  could  be  coaxed  away,  and 
left  a  joy  in  going  —  "  oh  !  what  have  I  done  to  vex  you  so  ?  " 

"  It  is  nothing  done  by  you,  Master  Ridd,"  she  answered,  very  proudly,  as  if 
naught  I  did  could  matter  ;  "  it  is  only  something  that  comes  upon  me  with  the 
scent  of  the  pure,  true  clover  hay.  Moreover,  you  have  been  too  kind  ;  and  I  am 
not  used  to  kindness." 

Some  sort  of  awkwardness  was  on  me,  at  her  words  and  weeping,  as  if  I  would 
like  to  say  something,  but  feared  to  make  things  worse,  perhaps,  than  they  were 
already.  Therefore  I  abstained  from  speech,  as  I  would  in  my  own  pain.  And  as 
it  happened,  this  was  the  way  to  make  her  tell  me  more  about  it.  Not  that  I  was 
curious,  beyond  what  pity  urged  me  and  the  strange  affairs  around  her  ;  and  now 
I  gazed  upon  the  floor,  lest  I  should  seem  to  watch  her  ;  but  none  the  less  for  that 
I  knew  all  that  she  was  doing. 

Lorna  went  a  little  way,  as  if  she  would  not  think  of  me,  nor  care  for  one  so 
careless  ;  and  all  my  heart  gave  a  sudden  jump,  to  go  like  a  mad  thing  after  her ; 
until  she  turned  of  her  own  accord,  and  with  a  little  sigh  came  back  to  me.  Her 
eyes  were  soft  with  trouble's  shadow,  and  the  proud  lift  of  her  neck  was  gone,  and 
beauty's  vanity  borne  down  by  woman's  want  of  sustenance. 

"  Master  Ridd,"  she  said,  in  the  softest  voice  that  ever  flowed  between  two  lips, 
"have  I  done  aught  to  offend  you  ?  " 

Hereupon  it  went  hard  with  me  not  to  catch  her  up  and  kiss  her,  in  the  manner 
in  which  she  was  looking;  only  it  smote  me  suddenly  that  this  would  be  a  low  ad- 
vantage of  her  trust  and  helplessness.  She  seemed  to  know  what  I  would  be  at, 
and  to  doubt  very  greatly  about  it,  whether,  as  a  child  of  old,  she  might  permit  the 
usage.  All  sorts  of  things  went  through  my  head,  as  I  made  myself  look  away 
from  her,  for  fear  of  being  tempted  beyond  what  I  could  bear.  And  the  upshot  of 
it  was  that  I  said  within  my  heart  and  through  it :  "  John  Ridd,  be  on  thy  very 
best  manners  with  this  lonely  maiden." 

Lorna  liked  me  all  the  better  for  my  good  forbearance,  because  she  did  not  love 
me  yet,  and  had  not  thought  about  it  ;  at  least  so  far  as  I  knew.  And  though  her 
eyes  were  so  beauteous,  so  very  soft  and  kindly,  there  was  (to  my  apprehension) 
some  great  power  in  them,  as  if  she  would  not  have  a  thing,  unless  her  judgment 
leaped  with  it. 


no  THE     TYRANNY    OF    AND R  OS, 

But  now  her  judgment  leaped  with  me  because  I  had  behaved  so  well ;  and 
being  of  quick,  urgent  nature — such  as  I  delight  in  from  the  change  from  mine 
own  slowness — she  without  any  let  or  hindrance,  sitting  over  against  me,  now 
raising  and  now  dropping  fringe  over  those  sweet  eyes  that  were  the  road-lights  of 
her  tongue,  Lorna  told  me  all  about  everything  I  wished  to  know,  every  little  thing 
she  knew,  except,  indeed,  that  point  of  points,  how  Master  Ridd  stood  with  her. 

R.  D.  BLACKMORE. 


THE     TYRANNY     OF     ANDROS. 

THE  general  sentiment  of  the  early  New  England  writers  was  like  that  of  the 
"  Wonder-working  Providence,"  though  it  did  not  always  find  such  rhapsodic  ex- 
pression. It  has  left  its  impress  upon  the  minds  of  their  children's  children  down 
to  our  own  time,  and  has  affected  the  opinions  held  about  them  by  other  people.  It 
has  had  something  to  do  with  a  certain  tacit  assumption  of  superiority  on  the  part 
of  New  Englanders,  upon  which  the  men  and  women  of  other  communities  have 
been  heard  to  comment  in  resentful  and  carping  tones.  There  has  probably  never 
existed,  in  any  age  or  at  any  spot  on  the  earth's  surface,  a  group  of  people  that  did 
not  take  for  granted  its  own  preeminent  excellence.  Upon  some  such  assumption, 
as  upon  an  incontrovertible  axiom,  all  historical  narratives,  from  the  chronicles  of 
a  parish  to  the  annals  of  an  empire,  alike  proceed.  But  in  New  England  it  as- 
sumed a  form  especially  apt  to  provoke  challenge.  One  of  its  unintentional  effects 
was  the  setting  up  of  an  unreal  and  impossible  standard  by  which  to  judge  the  acts 
and  motives  of  the  Puritans  of  the  seventeenth  century.  We  come  upon  instances 
of  harshness  and  cruelty,  of  narrow-minded  bigotry,  and  superstitious  frenzy ;  and 
feel,  perhaps,  a  little  surprised  that  these  men  had  so  much  in  common  with  their 
contemporaries.  Hence,  the  interminable  discussion  which  has  been  called  forth 
by  the  history  of  the  Puritans,  in  which  the  conclusions  of  the  writer  have  gener- 
ally been  determined  by  circumstances  of  birth  or  creed,  or  perhaps  of  reaction 
against  creed.  One  critic  points  to  the  Boston  of  1659,  or  the  Salem  of  1692  with 
such  gleeful  satisfaction  as  used  to  stir  the  heart  of  Thomas  Paine  when  he 
alighted  upon  an  inconsistency  in  some  text  of  the  Bible  ;  while  another,  in  the 
firm  conviction  that  Puritans  could  do  no  wrong,  plays  fast  and  loose  with  argu- 
ments that  might  be  made  to  justify  the  deeds  of  a  Torquemada. 

JOHN  FISKE. 


THE    LONG    PATH. 


THE     LONG     PATH. 

I  FELT  very  weak  indeed  (though  of  a  tolerably  robust  habit)  as  we  came  opposite 
the  head  of  this  path  on  that  morning.  I  think  I  tried  to  speak  twice  without 
making  myself  distinctly  audible.  At  last  I  got  out  the  question,  "  Will  you  take 
the  long  path  with  me  ? " 

"Certainly,"  said  the  school-mistress,  "with  much  pleasure." 

"Think,"  I  said,  "  before  you  answer ;  if  you  take  the  long  path  with  me  now,  I 
shall  interpret  it  that  we  part  no  more  !  " 

The  school-mistress  stepped  back  with  a  sudden  movement,  as  if  an  arrow  had 
struck  her. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks  used  as  seats  was  hard  by  —  the  one  you  may 
still  see  close  by  the  Gingko-tree.  u  Pray  sit  down,"  I  said. 

"No,  no,"   she  answered  softly,  "  I  will  walk  the  long  path  with  you  !" 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 


LUCY     AND     THE     "RAJAH." 

"  THEN  let  me  say,  Lucy,  to-day,  for  perhaps  I  shall  never  say  that,  or  anything 
that  is  sweet  to  say,  again.  Lucy,  you  know  what  I  came  for  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  to  receive  my  congratulations." 

"  More  than  that  — a  great  deal.     To  ask  you  to  go  halves  in  the  '  Rajah.' ' 

Lucy's  eyebrows  demanded  an  explanation. 

"  She  is  worth  two  thousand  a  year  to  her  commander,  and  that  is  too  much  for 
a  bachelor." 

Lucy  colored  and  smiled. 

"  Why,  it  is  only  just  enough  for  most  of  them  to  live  on." 

"  It  is  too  much  for  me  alone,  under  the  circumstances,"  said  David,  gravely  ; 
and  there  was  a  little  silence. 

"  Lucy,  I  love  you.  With  you  the  '  Rajah '  would  be  a  godsend.  She  will  help 
me  keep  you  in  the  company  you  have  been  used  to,  and  were  made  to  brighten 
and  adorn  ;  but  without  you  I  cannot  take  her  from  your  hand  —  and,  to  speak 
plain,  I  won't." 

"Oh!  Mr.  Dodd!" 

"  No,  Lucy,  before  I  knew  you,  to  command  a  ship  was  the  height  of  my  ambi- 
tion, the  quarter-deck  my  heaven  on  earth  ;  and  this  is  a  clipper,  I  own  it,  I  saw 
her  in  the  docks.  But  you  have  taught  me  to  look  higher.  Share  my  ship  and 
my  heart  with  me,  and  she  will  be  all  the  dearer  to  me  that  she  came  to  us  from 
her  I  love.  But  don't  say  to  me,  '  Me  you  sha'n't  have,  you  are  not  good  enough 


ii2  LUCY    AND     THE     "RAJAH." 

for  that,  but  there  is  a  ship  for  you  in  my  place  !  '  I  wouldn't  accept  a  star  out  of 
the  firmament  on  those  terms." 

"  How  unreasonable  !  On  the  contrary,  you  should  say,  '  I  am  doubly  fortu- 
nate;  I  escape  a  weak,  foolish  companion  for  life,  and  I  have  a  beautiful  ship.' 
But  friendship  such  as  mine  for  you  was  never  appreciated  ;  I  do  you  injustice  ; 
you  only  talk  like  that  to  tease  me,  and  make  me  unhappy." 

"Oh,  Lucy,  Lucy!  did  you  ever  know  me  "  — 

"  There,  now,  forgive  me !  and  own  that  you  are  not  in  earnest." 

"  This  will  show  you,"  said  David,  sadly,  and  he  took  out  two  letters  from  his 
pocket.  "  Here  are  two  letters  to  the  Secretary.  In  one  I  accept  the  ship  with 
thanks,  and  offer  to  superintend  her  when  her  rigging  is  being  set  up  ;  and  in  this 
one  I  decline  her  altogether,  with  my  humble  and  sincere  thanks." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are  very  humble,  sir,"  said  Lucy.  "Now  —  dear  friend  —  listen 
to  reason.  You  have  others  "  — 

"  Excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  it  is  a  rule  with  me  never  to  reason  about 
right  and  wrong.  I  notice  that  whoever  does  that,  ends  by  choosing  wrong.  I 
don't  go  to  my  head  to  find  my  duty,  I  go  to  my  heart ;  and  what  little  manhood 
there  is  in  me  all  cries  out  against  me  compounding  with  the  woman  I  love,  and 
taking  a  ship  instead  of  her."  .  .  . 

"  See  how  power  hurts  people,  and  brings  out  their  true  character.  Since  you 
commanded  the  'Rajah'  you  are  all  changed.  You  used  to  be  submissive  ;  now 
you  must  have  your  own  way  entirely  ;  you  will  fling  my  poor  ship  in  my  face  un- 
less I  give  you  —  but  this  is  really  using  force  ;  yes,  Mr.  Dodd,  this  is  using  force. 
Somebody  has  told  you  that  my  sex  yield  when  downright  compulsion  is  used.  It 
is  true.  And  the  more  ungenerous  to  apply  it."  And  she  melted  into  a  few 
placid  tears. 

David  did  not  know  this  sign  of  yielding  in  a  woman,  and  he  groaned  at  the 
sight  of  them,  and  hung  his  head. 

"  Advise  me  what  I  had  better  do." 

To  this  singular  proposal,  David,  listening  to  the  ill-advice  of  the  fiend  Gener- 
osity, groaned  out,  "  Why  should  you  be  tormented  and  made  cry  ? " 

"Why,  indeed?" 

"  Nothing  can  change  me.     I  advise  you  to  cut  it  short."     .     .     . 

"  I  ivill  cut  this  short,  Mr.  Dodd  ;  give  me  that  paper." 

"  Which  ? " 

"  The  wicked  one  where  you  refuse  my  '  Rajah.'  "... 

She  took  it,  and  with  both  her  supple  white  hands  tore  it  with  insulting  pre- 
cision exactly  in  half. 

"There,  sir;  and  there,  sir"  (exactly  in  four);  "and  there"  (in  eight,  with 
malicious  exactness)  ;  "and  there;  "  and,  though  it  seemed  impossible  to  effect  an- 
other separation,  yet  the  taper  fingers  and  a  resolute  will  reduced  it  to  tiny  bits. 
She  then  made  a  gesture  to  throw  them  in  the  fire,  but  thought  better  of  it  and 
held  them. 

David  looked  on,  almost  amused  at  this  zealous  demolition  of  a  thing  he  could 


LUCY    AND     THE    "RAJAH."  113 

so  easily  replace.     He  said,  part  sadly,  part  doggedly,  part  apologetically,     "  I  can 
write  another." 

"  But  you  will  not.     Oh,  Mr.  Dodd,   don't  you  see  ?  " 

He  looked  up  at  her  eagerly.  To  his  surprise  her  haughty,  eagle  look  had  gone, 
and  she  seemed  a  pitying  goddess,  all  tenderness  and  benignity  ;  only  her  mantling, 
burning  cheek  showed  her  to  be  a  woman. 

She  faltered,  in  answer  to  his  wild,  eager  look,  "  Was  I  ever  so  rude  before  ? 
What  right  have  I  to  tear  your  letter,  unless  I " 

The  characteristic  full  stop,  and  above  all,  the  heaving  bosom,  the  melting  eye, 
and  the  red  cheek  were  enough  even  for  poor  simple  David.  Heaven  seemed  to 
open  on  him.  His  burning  kisses  fell  on  the  sweet  hands  that  had  torn  his  death- 
warrant.  .  .  .  David  drew  her  closer  and  closer  to  him,  till  she  hid  her  fore- 
head and  wet  eyelashes  on  his  shoulder  and  murmured  - 

"  How  could  I  let  you  be  unhappy  ?  " 

Neither  spoke  for  a  while.  Each  felt  the  other's  heart  beat  ;  and  David  drank 
that  ecstasy  of  silent,  delirious  bliss  which  comes  to  great  hearts  once  in  a  life. 

CHARLES  READE. 


TWEN1  Y-  THREE  ! 


TWENTY-THREE! 

THE  supposed  Evremoride  descends,  and  the  seamstress  is  lifted  out  next  after 
him.  He  has  not  relinquished  her  patient  hand  in  getting  out,  but  still  holds  it  as 
he  promised.  He  gently  places  her  with  her  back  to  the  crashing  engine  that  con- 
stantly whirrs  up  and  falls,  and  she  looks  into  his  face  and  thanks  him. 

"  But  for  you,  dear  stranger,  I  should  not  be  so  composed,  for  I  am  naturally  a 
poor  little  thing,  faint  of  heart  ;  nor  should  I  have  been  able  to  raise  my  thoughts 


GADSHILL. —  THE    HOME    OF   CHARLES    DICKENS. 


to  Him  who  was  put  to  death,  that  we  might  have  hope  and  comfort  here  to-day. 
I  think  you  were  sent  to  me  by  Heaven." 

"  Or  you  to  me,"  says  Sydney  Carton.  "  Keep  your  eyes  upon  me,  dear  child, 
and  mind  no  other  object." 

"  I  mind  nothing  while  I  hold  your  hand.  I  shall  mind  nothing  when  I  let  it 
go,  if  they  are  rapid." 

"  They  will  be  rapid.     Fear  not  !  " 

The  two  stand  in  the  fast-thinning  throng  of  victims,  but  they  speak  as  if  they 
were  alone.  Eye  to  eye,  voice  to  voice,  hand  to  hand,  heart  to  heart,  these  two 
children  of  the  Universal  Mother,  else  so  wide  apart  and  differing,  have  come  to- 
gether on  the  dark  highway,  to  repair  home  together,  and  to  rest  in  her  bosom. 


TWENTY-THREE!  „* 

J 

"  Brave  and  generous  friend,  will  you  let  me  ask  you  one  last  qnestion  ?  I  am 
very  ignorant,  and  it  troubles  me — just  a  little." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  I  have  a  cousin,  an  only  relative  and  an  orphan,  like  myself,  whom  I  love  very 
dearly.  She  is  five  years  younger  than  I,  and  she  lives  in  a  farmer's  house  in  the 
south  country.  Poverty  parted  us,  and  she  knows  nothing  of  my  fate  —  for  I  can- 
not write  —  and  if  I  could,  how  should  I  tell  her  !  It  is  better  as  it  is." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  better  as  it  is." 

"What  I  have  been  thinking  as  we  came  along,  and  what  I  am  still  thinking 
now,  as  I  look  into  your  kind  strong  face  which  gives  me  so  much  support,  is  this  : 
—  If  the  Republic  really  does  good  to  the  poor,  and  they  come  to  be  less  hungry, 
and  in  all  ways  to  suffer  less,  she  may  live  a  long  time ;  she  may  even  live  to  be 
old." 

"  What  then,  my  gentle  sister  ? " 

"  Do  you  think  : "  the  uncomplaining  eyes  in  which  there  is  so  much  endur- 
ance, fill  with  tears,  and  the  lips  part  a  little  more  and  tremble  :  "  that  it  will  seem 
long  to  me,  while  I  wait  for  her  in  the  better  land  where  I  trust  both  you  and  I 
will  be  mercifully  sheltered  ? " 

"  It  cannot  be,  my  child  ;  there  is  no  Time  there,  and  no  trouble  there." 

"  You  comfort  me  so  much  !  I  am  so  ignorant.  Am  I  to  kiss  you  now  ?  Is 
the  moment  come  ?  " 

"Yes." 

She  kisses  his  lips  ;  he  kisses  hers  ;  they  solemnly  bless  each  other.  The 
spare  hand  does  not  tremble  as  he  releases  it  ;  nothing  worse  than  a  sweet,  bright 
constancy  is  in  the  patient  face.  She  goes  next  before  him  —  is  gone  ;  the  knit- 
ting women  count  Twenty-Two. 

"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord  :  he  that  believeth  in  me, 
though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live  :  and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me, 
shall  never  die." 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning  of  many  faces,  the  pressing  on 
of  many  footsteps  in  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  so  that  it  swells  forward  in  a  mass, 
like  one  great  heave  of  water,  all  flashes  away.  Twenty-Three. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


n6 


"  DE    BAPTIZIN'     IN    ELKHORN    CREEK." 


"DE     BAPTIZIN'     IN     ELKHORN     CREEK." 


"  HIT  wuz  long  time,"  he  con- 
tinued, "'fo'  Phillis  come  toheah 
me  preach  any  mo'.  But  'long 
'bout  de  nex'  fall  we  had  big 
meetin',  en  heap  mo'  'urn  j'ined. 
But  Phillis,  she  ain't  nuver  j'ined 
yit.  I  preached  mighty  nigh  all 
roun'  my  coat-tails  till  I  say  to 
myse'f,  D'  ain't  but  one  tex'  lef, 
en  I  jes  got  to  fetch  'er  wid  dat ! 
De  tex'  wuz  on  de  right  tail  o' 
my  coat  :  '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye 
dat  labor  en  is  heavy  laden.'  Hit 
wuz  a  ve'y  momentous  sermon, 
en  all  'long  I  jes  see  Phillis 
wras'lin'  wid  'erse'f,  en  I  say, 
'  She  got  to  come  dis  night,  de 
Lohd  he'pin'  me.'  En  I  had  n' 
mo'  'n  said  de  word,  'fo'  she  jes 
walked  down  en  guv  me  'er  han'. 
Den  we  had  de  baptizin'  in  Elk- 
horn  Creek,  en  de  watter  wuz  deep 

en  de  curren'  tol'ble  swif.  Hit  look  to  me  like  dere  wuz  five  hundred  uv  'um  on  de 
creek  side.  By  en  by  I  stood  on  de  edge  o'  de  watter,  en  Phillis  she  come  down  to  let 
me  baptize  'er.  En  me  en  'er  j'ined  han's  en  waded  out  in  de  creek,  mighty  slow,  caze 
Phillis  didn't  have  no  shot  roun'  de  bottom  uv  'er  dress,  en  it  kep'  floatin'  on  top 
de  watter  till  I  pushed  it  down.  But  by  en  by  we  got  'way  out  in  de  creek,  en 
bof  of  us  wuz  tremblin'.  En  I  says  to  'er  ve'y  kindly,  'When  I  put  you  un'er  de 
watter,  Phillis,  you  mus'  try  en  hole  yo'se'f  stiff,  so  I  can  lif  you  up  easy.'  But 
I  hadn't  mo'  'n  jes  got  'er  laid  back  over  de  watter  ready  to  souze  'er  un'er  when 
'er  feet  flew  up  off  de  bottom  uv  de  creek,  en  when  I  retched  out  to  fetch  'er  up, 
I  stepped  in  a  hole ;  en  'fo'  I  knowed  it,  we  wuz  flounderin'  roun'  in  de  watter,  en 
de  hymn  dey  wuz  singin'  on  de  bank  sounded  mighty  confused-like.  En  Phillis 
she  swallowed  some  watter,  en  all  't  oncet  she  jes  grab  me  right  tight  roun'  de 
neck,  en  said  mighty  quick,  says  she,  'I  gwine  marry  whoever  gits  me  out  'n  dis 
yere  watter  ! ' 

"  En  by  en  by,  when  me  en  'er  wuz  walkin'  up  de  bank  o'  de  creek,  drippin'  all 
over,  I  says  to  'er,  says  I  : 

"  '  Does  you  'member  whut  you  said  back  yon'er  in  de  watter,  Phillis  ? ' 
"  '  I  ain't  out'n  no  watter  yit,'  says  she,  ve'y  contemptuous. 


CONSIDERING    THE   NEXT   TEXT. 


SCOTCHMEN.  II? 

"  '  When  does  you  consider  yo'se'f  out  'n  de  watter  ? '  says  I,  ve'y  humble. 

"  '  When  I  get  dese  soakin'  clo'es  off  'n  my  back,'  says  she. 

"  Hit  wuz  good  dark  when  we  got  home,  en  atter  a  while  I  crope  up  to  de  doah 
o'  Phillis's  cabin  en  put  my  eye  down  to  de  keyhole,  en  see  Phillis  jes  settin'  'fo'  dem 
blazin'  walnut  logs  dressed  up  in  'er  new  red  linsey  dress,  en  'er  eyes  shinin'.  En 
I  shuk  so  I  mos'  faint.  Den  I  tap  easy  on  de  doah,  en  say  in  a  mighty  tremblin' 
tone,  says  I  : 

"  '  Is  you  out  'n  de  watter  yit,  Phillis  ? ' 

"  '  I  got  on  dry  dress,'  says  she. 

"  '  Does  you  'member  what  you  said  back  yon'er  in  de  watter,  Phillis  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  De  latch-string  on  de  outside  de  doah,'  says  she,  mighty  sof. 

"  En  I  walked  in." 

JAMES  LANE  ALLEN. 


SCOTCHMEN. 

.  .  .  Shall  I  tire  you  with  a  description  of  this  unfruitful  country,  where  I 
must  lead  you  over  their  hills  all  brown  with  heath,  or  their  valleys  scarcely  able 
to  feed  a  rabbit  ?  Man  alone  seems  to  be  the  only  creature  who  has  arrived  to  the 
natural  size  in  this  poor  soil.  Every  part  of  the  country  presents  the  same  dismal 
landscape.  No  grove  nor  brook  lend  their  music  to  cheer  the  stranger,  or  make  the 
inhabitants  forget  their  poverty.  Yet  with  all  these  disadvantages,  enough  to  call 
him  down  to  humility,  a  Scotchman  is  one  of  the  proudest  things  alive.  The  poor 
have  pride  ever  ready  to  relieve  them.  If  mankind  should  happen  to  despise  them 
they  are  masters  of  their  own  admiration,  and  that  they  can  plentifully  bestow 
upon  themselves. 

From  their  pride  and  poverty,  as  I  take  it,  results  one  advantage  this  country 
enjoys  :  namely,  the  gentlemen  here  are  much  better  bred  than  among  us.  No 
such  character  here  as  our  fox-hunter  ;  and  they  have  expressed  great  surprise 
when  I  informed  them  that  some  men  in  Ireland  of  one  thousand  pounds  a  year 
spend  their  whole  lives  in  running  after  a  hare,  drinking  to  be  drunk,  and  .  .  . 
Truly,  if  such  a  being,  equipped  in  his  hunting  dress,  came  among  a  circle  of 
Scotch  gentry,  they  would  behold  him  with  the  same  astonishment  that  a  country- 
man does  King  George  on  horseback. 

The  men  here  have  generally  high  cheek-bones,  and  are  lean  and  swarthy,  fond 
of  action,  dancing  in  particular.  Now  that  I  have  mentioned  dancing,  let 
me  say  something  of  their  balls,  which  are  very  frequent  here.  When  a 
stranger  enters  the  dancing-hall,  he  sees  one  end  of  the  room  taken  up  by 
the  ladies,  who  sit  dismally  in  a  group  by  themselves ;  in  the  other  end 
stand  their  pensive  partners  that  are  to  be ;  but  no  more  intercourse  between 


n8  ON    ENGLAND'S    FOREIGN    POLICY. 

the  sexes  than  there  is  between  two  countries  at  war.  The  ladies  indeed 
»may  ogle,  and  the  gentlemen  sigh  ;  but  an  embargo  is  laid  on  any  closer  commerce. 
At  length,  to  interrupt  hostilities,  the  lady  directress,  or  intendant,  or  what  you 
will,  pitches  upon  a  lady  and  gentleman  to  walk  a  minuet  ;  which  they  perform 
with  a  formality  that  approaches  to  despondence.  After  five  or  six  couples  have 
thus  walked  the  gauntlet,  all  stand  up  to  country  dances,  each  gentleman  furnished 
with  a  partner  from  the  aforesaid  lady  directress  ;  so  they  dance  much,  say  noth- 
ing, and  thus  concludes  our  assembly.  I  told  a  Scotch  gentleman  that  such  pro- 
found silence  resembled  the  ancient  procession  of  the  Roman  matrons  in  honor  of 
Ceres  ;  and  the  Scotch  gentleman  told  me  (and,  faith,  I  believe  he  was  right)  that 
I  was  a  very  great  pedant  for  my  pains.  .  .  . 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


ON     ENGLAND'S     FOREIGN     POLICY. 

I  BELIEVE  there  is  no  permanent  greatness  to  a  nation  except  it  be  based  upon 
morality.  I  do  not  care  for  military  greatness  or  military  renown.  I  care  for 
the  condition  of  the  people  among  whom  I  live.  There  is  no  man  in  England 
who  is  less  likely  to  speak  irreverently  of  the  crown  and  monarchy  of  England 
than  I  am  ;  but  crowns,  coronets,  mitres,  military  display,  the  pomp  of  war,  wide 
colonies,  and  a  huge  empire  are,  in  my  view,  all  trifles  light  as  air,  and  not  worth 
considering,  unless  with  them  you  can  have  a  fair  share  of  comfort,  contentment, 
and  happiness  among  the  great  body  of  the  people.  Palaces,  baronial  castles, 
great  halls,  stately  mansions,  do  not  make  a  nation.  The  nation  in  every  country 
dwells  in  the  cottage  ;  and  unless  the  light  of  your  constitution  can  shine  there, 
unless  the  beauty  of  your  legislation  and  the  excellence  of  your  statesmanship  are 
impressed  there  on  the  feelings  and  condition  of  the  people,  rely  upon  it  you  have 
yet  to  learn  the  duties  of  government. 

I  have  not,  as  you  have  observed,  pleaded  that  this  country  should  remain  with- 
out adequate  and  scientific  means  of  defence.  I  acknowledge  it  to  be  the  duty  of 
your  statesman,  acting  upon  the  known  opinions  and  principles  of  ninety-nine  out 
of  every  hundred  persons  in  the  country,  at  all  times,  with  all  possible  moderation, 
but  with  all  possible  efficiency,  to  take  steps  which  shall  preserve  order  within  and 
on  the  confines  of  your  kingdom.  But  I  shall  repudiate  and  denounce  the  expen- 
diture of  every  shilling,  the  engagement  of  every  man,  the  employment  of  every 
ship,  which  has  no  object  but  intermeddling  in  the  affairs  of  other  countries,  and 
endeavoring  to  extend  the  boundaries  of  an  empire  which  is  already  large  enough 
to  satisfy  the  greatest  ambition,  and  I  fear  is  much  too  large  for  the  highest  states- 
manship to  which  any  man  has  yet  attained. 

The  most  ancient  of  profane  historians  has  told  us  that  the  Scythians  of  his 
time  were  a  very  warlike  people,  and  that  they  elevated  an  old  cimeter  upon  a  plat- 


ON    ENGLAND'S    FOREIGN    POLICY.  119 

form  as  a  symbol  of  Mars,  for  to  Mars  alone,  I  believe,  they  built  altars  and  offered 
sacrifices.  To  this  cimeter  they  offered  sacrifices  of  horses  and  cattle,  the  main 
wealth  of  the  country,  and  more  costly  sacrifices  than  to  all  the  rest  of  their 
gods.  I  often  ask  myself  whether  we  are  at  all  advanced  in  one  respect  beyond 
those  Scythians.  What  are  our  contributions  to  charity,  to  education,  to  morality, 
to  religion,  to  justice,  and  to  civil  government,  when  compared  with  the  wealth  we 
expend  in  sacrifices  to  the  old  cimeter?  Two  nights  ago  I  addressed  in  this  hall 
a  vast  assembly  composed  to  a  great  extent  of  your  countrymen  who  have  no 
political  power,  who  are  at  work  from  the  dawn  of  the  day  to  the  evening,  and 
who  have  therefore  limited  means  of  informing  themselves  on  these  great  subjects. 
Now  I  am  privileged  to  speak  to  a  somewhat  different  audience.  You  represent 
those  of  your  great  community  who  have  a  more  complete  education,  who  have  on 
some  points  greater  intelligence,  and  in  whose  hands  reside  the  power  and  influ- 
ence of  the  district.  I  am  speaking,  too,  within  the  hearing  of  those  whose  gentle 
nature,  whose  finer  instincts,  whose  purer  minds,  have  not  suffered  as  some  of  us 
have  suffered  in  the  turmoil  and  strife  of  life.  You  can  mould  opinion,  you  can 
create  political  power  ;  —  you  cannot  think  a  good  thought  on  this  subject  and  com- 
municate it  to  your  neighbors,  —  you  cannot  make  these  points  topics  of  discussion 
in  your  social  circles  and  more  general  meetings,  without  affecting  sensibly  and 
speedily  the  course  which  the  government  of  your  country  will  pursue. 

May  I  ask  you,  then,  to  believe,  as  I  do  most  devoutly  believe,  that  the  moral 
law  was  not  written  for  men  alone  in  their  individual  character,  but  that  it  was 
written  as  well  for  nations,  and  for  nations  great  as  this  of  which  we  are  citizens. 
If  nations  reject  and  deride  that  moral  law,  there  is  a  penalty  which  will  inevitably 
follow.  It  may  not  come  at  once,  it  may  not  come  in  our  lifetime ;  but  rely  upon 
it,  the  great  Italian  is  not  a  poet  only,  but  a  prophet,  when  he  says : 

"  The  sword  of  heaven  is  not  in  haste  to  smite, 
Nor  yet  doth  linger." 

We  have  experience,  we  have  beacons,  we  have  landmarks  enough.  We  know 
what  the  past  has  cost  us,  we  know  how  much  and  how  far  we  have  wandered,  but 
we  are  not  left  without  a  guide.  It  is  true  we  have  not,  as  an  ancient  people  had, 
Urim  and  Thummim  —  those  oraculous  gems  on  Aaron's  breast,  —  from  which  to 
take  counsel,  but  we  have  the  unchangeable  and  eternal  principles  of  the  moral 
law  to  guide  us,  and  only  so  far  as  we  walk  by  that  guidance  can  we  be  permanently 
a  great  nation,  or  our  people  a  happy  people. 

JOHN  BRIGHT. 


120 


VIRTUE    ALONE     BEAUTIFUL. 


VIRTUE     ALONE     BEAUTIFUL. 


*'  HANDSOME  is  that  handsome 
does,  —  hold  up  your  heads,  girls,"  is 
the  language  of  Primrose  in  the  play, 
when  addressing  her  daughters.  The 
worthy  matron  was  right.  Would 
that  all  my  female  readers,  who  are 
sorrowing  foolishly  because  they  are 
not  in  all  respects  like  Dubufe's  Eve, 
or  that  statue  of  Venus  which  en- 
chants the  world,  could  be  persuaded 
to  listen  to  her.  What  is  good-look- 
ing, as  Horace  Smith  remarks,  but 
looking  good?  Be  good,  be  womanly, 
be  gentle,  —  generous  in  your  sympa- 
thies, heedful  of  the  well-being  of 
those  around  you,  and,  my  word  for  it, 
you  will  not  lack  kind  words  or  admira- 
tion. Loving  and  pleasant  associations 
will  gather  about  you.  Never  mind 
the  ugly  reflection  which  your  glass 
may  give  you.  That  mirror  has  no 
heart.  But  quite  another  picture  is 
given  you  on  the  retina  of  human 
sympathy.  There  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness, of  purity,  of  that  inward  grace  "  which  passeth  show,"  rests  over  it,  softening 
and  mellowing  its  features,  just  as  the  full,  calm  moonlight  melts  those  of  a  rough 
landscape  into  harmonious  loveliness. 

"  Hold  up  your  heads,  girls,"  I  repeat  after  Primrose.  Why  should  you  not  ? 
Every  mother's  daughter  of  you  can  be  beautiful.  You  can  envelop  yourselves  in 
an  atmosphere  of  moral  and  intellectual  beauty,  through  which  your  otherwise  plain 
faces  will  look  forth  like  those  of  angels.  Beautiful  to  Ledyard,  stiffening  in  the 
cold  of  a  northern  winter,  seemed  the  diminutive,  smoke-stained  women  of  Lapland, 
who  wrapped  him  in  their  furs,  and  ministered  to  his  necessities  with  kind  and 
gentle  words  of  compassion.  Lovely  to  the  homesick  Park  seemed  the  dark  maids 
of  Sigo,  as  they  sung  their  low  and  simple  songs  of  welcome  beside  his  bed,  and 
sought  to  comfort  the  white  stranger  who  had  "  no  mother  to  bring  him  milk,  and 
no  wife  to  grind  him  corn." 

Oh  !  talk  as  you  may  of  beauty,  as  a  thing  to  be  chiselled  upon  marble  or 
wrought  on  canvas,  —  speculate  as  you  may  upon  its  colors  and  outline,  —  what 
is  it  but  an  intellectual  abstraction  after  all  ?  The  heart  feels  a  beauty  of  another 


JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 


CUVIER.  121 

kind, — looking  through  outward  environments,  discovers  a  deeper  and  more  real 
loveliness. 

This  was  well  understood  by  the  old  painters.  In  their  pictures  of  Mary,  the 
virgin  mother,  the  beauty  which  melts  and  subdues  the  gazer  is  that  of  the  soul 
and  the  affections, — uniting  the  awe  and  the  mystery  of  the  mother's  miraculous 
allotment  with  the  inexpressible  love,  the  unutterable  tenderness,  of  young  matern- 
ity, —  Heaven's  crowning  miracle  with  nature's  sweetest  and  holiest  instinct. 
And  their  pale  Magdalens,  holy  with  the  look  of  sins  forgiven,  —  how  the  divine 
beauty  of  their  penitence  sinks  into  the  heart  !  Do  we  not  feel  that  the  only  real 
deformity  is  sin,  and  that  goodness  evermore  hallows  and  sanctifies  its  dwelling- 
place  ? 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 


CUVIER. 

CUVIER  has  performed  for  the  kingdoms  of  animated  nature  the  work  which 
Newton  wrought  for  the  mechanism  of  the  heavens.  His  generalizations  now  seem 
final  and  complete.  They  bind  together  all  tribes  of  being  in  one  vast  and  beauti- 
ful system,  pervaded  by  analogies  and  equivalent  provisions  ;  and  reveal,  in  the 
structure  and  adaptations  of  the  animal  economy,  numberless  mysteries  of  divine 
wisdom  which  had  been  hidden  from  the  foundation  of  the  world.  He  reached 
these  sublime  results  because  his  religious  nature  prompted  him  to  look  for  unity 
and  harmony  in  the  works  of  God, — to  search  everywhere  for  traces  of  the  all- 
pervading  and  all-perfect  mind,  —  to  seek  in  the  humblest  zoophyte  the  expression 
of  an  idea  of  God,  —  the  not  unworthy  type  of  the  Infinite  Archetype.  He  wrought 
in  glowing  faith.  He  served  at  the  altar  of  science  as  a  priest  of  the  Most  High. 
Infidelity  went  from  his  presence  rebuked  and  humbled.  His  soul  was  kindled, 
his  lips  were  touched  ever  more  and  more  with  the  fire  of  heaven,  as,  with  waning 
strength  and  under  the  burden  of  bereavement,  he  still  drew  bolder,  fuller  harmon- 
ies, unheard  before,  from  the  lyre  of  universal  nature.  Says  one  who  was  present 
at  the  lecture  from  which  he  went  home  to  die,  "  In  the  whole  of  this  lecture  there 
was  an  omnipresence  of  the  Omnipotent  and  Supreme  Cause.  The  examination  of 
the  visible  world  seemed  to  touch  upon  the  invisible.  The  search  into  creation 
invoked  the  presence  of  the  Creator.  It  seemed  as  if  the  veil  were  to  be  torn  from 
before  us,  and  science  was  about  to  reveal  eternal  wisdom." 

ANDREW  P.  PEABODY. 


122  SS     GARDENING    A    PLEASURE? 


IS     GARDENING     A     PLEASURE? 

"  THE  country,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bluff,  with  an  air  of  candor  and  impartiality, 
"  is,  I  admit,  a  very  necessary  and  sometimes  a  very  charming  place.  I  thank 
Heaven  for  the  country  when  I  eat  my  first  green  peas,  when  the  lettuce  is  crisp, 
when  the  potatoes  are  delicate  and  mealy,  when  the  well-fed  poultry  comes  to  town, 
when  the  ruddy  peach  and  the  purple  grape  salute  me  at  the  fruit-stands.  I  love 
the  country  when  I  think  of  a  mountain  ramble  ;  when  I  am  disposed  to  wander 
with  rod  and  reel  along  the  forest-shadowed  brook  ;  when  the  apple-orchards  are  in 
blossom  ;  when  the  hills  blaze  with  autumn  foliage.  But  I  protest  against  the  dog- 
matism of  rural  people,  who  claim  all  the  cardinal  and  all  the  remaining  virtues  for 
their  rose-beds  and  cabbage-patches.  The  town,  sir,  bestows  felicities  higher  in 
character  than  the  country  does  ;  for  men  and  women,  and  the  works  of  men  and 
women,  are  always  worthier  our  love  and  concern  than  the  rocks  and  the  hills.  .  .  . 

.  .  "  Oh,  yes  !  I  have  heard  before  of  the  pleasures  of  the  garden.  Poets  have 
sung,  enthusiasts  have  written,  and  old  men  have  dreamed  of  them  since  History 
began  her  chronicles.  But  have  theflains  of  the  garden  ever  been  dwelt  upon  ?  Have 
people,  now,  been  entirely  honest  in  what  they  have  said  and  written  on  this  theme  ? 
When  enthusiasts  have  told  us  of  their  prize  pears,  their  early  peas  of  supernatural 
tenderness,  their  asparagus,  and  their  roses,  and  their  strawberries,  have  they  not 
hidden  a  good  deal  about  their  worm-eaten  plums  —  about  their  cherries  that  were 
carried  off  by  armies  of  burglarious  birds  ;  about  their  potatoes  that  proved  watery 
and  unpalatable  ;  about  their  melons  that  fell  victims  to  their  neighbors'  fowls  ; 
about  their  peaches  that  succumbed  to  the  unexpected  raid  of  Jack  Frost ;  about 
their  grapes  that  fell  under  the  blight  of  mildew  ;  about  their  green  corn  that  with- 
ered in  the  hill ;  about  the  mighty  host  of  failures  that,  if  all  were  told,  would  tower 
in  high  proportion  above  the  few  much-blazoned  successes  ? 

"  Who  is  it  that  says  a  garden  is  a  standing  source  of  pleasure  ?  Amend  this, 
I  say,  by  asserting  that  a  garden  is  a  standing  source  of  discomfort  and  vexation. 
.  .  .  A  hopeless  restlessness,  according  to  my  observation,  takes  possession  of 
every  amateur  gardener.  Discontent  abides  in  his  soul.  There  is,  indeed,  so  much 
to  be  done,  changed,  re-arranged,  watched,  nursed,  that  the  amateur  gardener  is 
really  entitled  to  praise  and  generous  congratulations  when  one  of  his  thousand 
schemes  comes  to  fruition.  We  ought  in  pity  to  rejoice  with  him  over  his  big 
Lawton  blackberries,  and  say  nothing  of  the  cherries,  and  the  pears,  and  the 
peaches,  that  once  were  budding  hopes,  but  have  gone  the  way  of  Moore's  '  dear 
gazelle.'  Then  the  large  expenditures  which  were  needed  to  bring  about  his  tri- 
umph of  the  Lawtons.  'Those  potatoes,'  said  an  enthusiastic  amateur  gardener 
to  me  once,  'cost  twenty-five  cents  apiece  ! '  And  they  were  very  good  potatoes, 
too  —  almost  equal  to  those  that  could  be  bought  in  market  at  a  dollar  a  bushel. 

"And  then,  amateur  gardeners  are  feverishly  addicted  to  early  rising.     Men 


AS     GARDENING    A     PLEASURE? 


123 


with  gardens  are  like  those  hard  drinkers  whose  susceptibilities  are  hopelessly 
blunted.  Who  but  a  man  diverted  from  the  paths  of  honest  feeling  and  natural 
enjoyment,  possessed  of  a  demoniac  mania,  lost  to  the  peace  and  serenity  of  the 
virtuous  and  the  blessed,  could  find  pleasure  amid  the  damps,  and  dews,  and  chills, 
and  rawedgedness  of  a  garden  in  the  early  morning,  absolutely  find  pleasure  in  sat- 
urated trousers,  in  shoes  swathed  in  moisture,  in  skies  that  are  gray  and  gloomy, 
in  flowers  that  are,  as  Mantalini  would  put  it,  '  demnition  moist '  ?  The  thing  is 
incredible  !  Now,  a  garden,  after  the  sun  has  dried  the  paths,  warmed  the  air, 
absorbed  the  dew,  is  admissible.  But  a  possession  that  compels  an  early  turning 
out  into  fogs  and  discomforts  deserves  for  this  fact  alone  the  anathema  of  all 
rational  beings. 

"  I  really  believe,  sir,  that  the  literature  of  the  garden,  so  abundant  everywhere, 
is  written  in  the  interest  of  suburban  land-owners.  The  inviting  one-sided  picture 
so  persistently  held  up  is  only  a  covert  bit  of  advertising,  intended  to  seduce  away 
happy  cockneys  of  the  town  —  men  supremely  contented  with  their  attics,  their 
promenades  in  Fifth  Avenue,  their  visits  to  Central  Park,  where  all  is  arranged  for 
them  without  their  labor  or  concern,  their  evenings  at  the  music  gardens,  their 
soft  morning  slumbers,  which  know  no  dreadful  chills  and  dews !  How  could  a 
back-ache  over  the  pea-bed  compensate  for  these  felicities  ?  How  could  sour  cher- 
ries, or  half-ripe  strawberries,  or  wet  rosebuds,  even  if  they  do  come  from  one's 
own  garden,  reward  him  for  the  lose  of  the  ease  and  the  serene  conscience  of  one 
who  sings  merrily  in  the  streets,  and  cares  not  whether  worms  burrow,  whether 
suns  burn,  whether  birds  steal,  whether  winds  overturn,  whether  droughts  destroy, 
whether  floods  drown,  whether  gardens  flourish,  or  not?" 

OLIVER  BELL  BUNCE. 


i24  THE    ROSE     OF    GLENGARY. 


THE     ROSE     OF     GLENGARY. 

"  SHALL  I  sing  you  one  of  our  old  songs  ?  " 

The  soft,  pure  voice  sounded  in  his  ears  like  some  fine  melody  of  olden  poets  ; 
her  frank,  kind  eyes,  as  she  looked  at  him,  soothed  and  quieted  him.  Again  she 
was  the  little  laughing  star  of  his  childhood,  as  when  they  wandered  about  over 
the  fields  —  little  children  —  that  period  so  recent,  yet  which  seemed  so  far  away, 
because  the  opening  heart  lives  long  in  a  brief  space  of  time.  Again  she  was  to 
him  Little  Redbud,  he  to  her  was  the  boy  playmate,  Verty.  She  had  done  all  by 
a  word — a  look,  a  kind,  frank  smile,  a  single  glance  of  confiding  eyes.  He  loved 
her  more  than  ever — yes,  a  thousand  times  more  strongly,  and  was  calm. 

He  followed  her  to  the  harpsicord,  and  watched  her  in  every  movement  with 
quiet  happiness  ;  he  seemed  to  be  under  the  influence  of  a  charm. 

"  I  think  I  will  try  and  sing  the  '  Rose  of  Glengary,'  "  she  said,  smiling. 
"  You  know,  Verty,  it  is  one  of  the  old  songs  you  loved  so  much ;  and  it  will  make 
us  think  of  old  times  —  in  childhood,  you  know.  Though  that  is  not  such  old,  old 
time  — at  least,  for  me,"  added  Redbud,  with  a  smile  more  soft  and  confiding  than 
before. 

"  Shall  I  sing  it  ?     Well,  give  me  the  book —  the  brown-backed  one." 

The  old  volume — such  as  we  find  to-day  in  ancient  country  houses,  was 
opened,  and  Redbud  commenced  singing.  The  girl  sang  the  sweet  ditty  with  much 
expression  ;  and  her  kind,  touching  voice  filled  the  old  homestead  with  a  tender 
melody,  such  as  the  autumn  time  would  utter,  could  its  spirit  become  vocal.  The 
clear,  tender  carol  made  the  place  fairyland  for  Verty  long  years  afterwards  ;  and 
always  he  seemed  to  hear  her  singing  when  he  visited  the  room. 

Redbud  sang,  afterwards,  more  than  one  of  those  old  ditties  —  "  Jock  o'  Hazel- 
dean,"  and  "  Flowers  of  the  Forest,"  and  many  others  —  ditties  which,  for  us  to- 
day, seem  like  so  many  utterances  of  the  fine  old  days  in  the  far  past. 

For,  who  does  not  hear  them  floating  above  those  sweet  fields  of  the  olden  time 
—  those  bright  Hesperian  gardens,  where,  for  us  at  least,  the  fruits  are  all  golden, 
and  the  airs  all  happy  ? 

Beautiful,  sad  ditties  of  the  brilliant  past !  not  he  who  writes  would  have  you 
lost  from  memory,  for  all  the  modern  world  of  music.  Kind  madrigals  !  which 
have  an  aroma  of  the  former  day  in  all  your  cadences,  and  dear  old-fashioned  trills 
—  from  whose  dim  ghosts  now,  in  the  faded  volumes  stored  away  in  garrets  and  on 
upper  shelves,  we  gather  what  you  were  in  the  old  immemorial  years  !  Soft  melo- 
dies of  another  age,  that  sound  still  in  the  present  with  such  moving  sweetness, 
one  heart  at  least  knows  what  a  golden  treasure  you  clasp,  and  listens  thankfully 
when  you  deign  to  issue  out  from  silence;  for  he  finds  in  you  alone — in  your 
gracious  cadences,  your  gay  or  stately  voices  — what  he  seeks;  the  life,  and  joy, 
and  splendor  of  the  antique  day  sacred  to  love  and  memory  ! 

And  Verty  felt  the  nameless  charm  of  the  good  old   songs,  warbled  by  the 


THE    FISHWIFE.  125 

young  girl's  sympathetic  voice  ;  and  more  than  once  his  wild-wood  nature  stirred 
within  him,  and  his  eyes  grew  moist.  And  when  she  ceased,  and  the  soft  carol 
went  away  to  the  realm  of  silence,  and  was  heard  no  more,  the  young  man  was  a 
child  again,  and  Redbud's  hand  was  in  his  own,  and  all  his  heart  was  still. 

JOHN  ESTEN  COOKE. 


THE     FISHWIFE. 

"THERE  is  poetry  in  everything."  True,  quite  true,  Emerson  — thou  true  man, 
poet  of  the  backwoods  !  But  there  is  not  poetry  in  a  fishwife,  surely  ?  Surely 
there  is  ;  lots  of  it.  Her  creel  has  more  than  all  Dugald  Moore's  tomes.  Why, 
there  was  one  —  I  mean  a  fishwife  —  this  moment  in  the  lobby.  She  had  a  hooked 
nose.  It  seemed  to  be  the  type,  nay  the  ancestor,  of  a  cod-hook.  Her  mouth  was 
a  skate  or  turbot  humanized  ;  her  teeth,  selected  from  the  finest  oyster  pearl ;  her 
eyes,  whelks  with  the  bonnets  on  —  bait  for  old  fish  on  sea  or  land;  her  hands  and 
fingers  in  redness  and  toughness  rivalled  the  crab,  barring  him  of  the  Zodiac.  Yet 
she  was  all  poetry.  I  had  been  fagging,  reading,  and  writing  since  6  A.  M.  (on 
honor  !) — had  dived  into  Owen,  was  drowned  in  Edwards,  and  wrecked  on  New- 
man—  my  brain  was  wearied,  when  suddenly  I  heard  the  sound  of  "  Flukes  !"  fol- 
lowed by  "  Had  —  dies  !  "  (a  name  to  which  Haidee  was  as  prose).  I  descended  and 
gazed  into  the  mysterious  creel,  and  then  came  a  gush  of  sunlight  upon  my  spirit 
—  visions  of  sunny  mornings  with  winding  shores,  and  clean,  sandy,  pearly 
beaches,  and  rippling  waves  glancing  and  glittering  over  white  shells  and  polished 
stones,  and  breezy  headlands  ;  and  fishing-boats  moving  like  shadows  onward  from 
the  great  deep ;  and  lobsters,  and  crabs,  and  spoutfish,  and  oysters,  crawling,  and 
chirping,  and  spouting  out  sea-water,  the  old  "  ocean  gleaming  like  a  silver  shield." 
The  fishwife  was  a  Claude  Lorraine  ;  her  presence  painted  what  did  my  soul  good, 
and  as  her  reward  I  gave  her  what  I'll  wager  never  during  her  life  had  been  given 
her  before  —  all  that  she  asked  for  her  fish  !  And  why,  you  ask,  have  I  sat  down 
to  write  to  you,  beloved  John,  all  this — to  spend  a  sheet  of  paper,  to  pay  one 
penny,  to  abuse  ten  tickings  of  my  watch  to  write  myself,  like  Dogberry,  an  ass? 
Why?  "Nature,"  quoth  d'Alembert,  "puts  questions  which  Nature  cannot  an- 
swer." And  shall  I  beat  Nature,  and  be  able  to  answer  questions  put  to  me  by 
John — Nature's  own  child?  Be  silent,  and  let  neither  of  us  shame  our  parent. 
Modesty  forbids  me  to  attempt  any  solution  of  thy  question,  dear  John.  Now  for 
work.  My  pipe  is  out  ! 

NORMAN  MACLEOD. 


126  AN    ENGLISH    S  UNSE  T.—  SECESSION. 


AN     ENGLISH     SUNSET. 

.  .  .  Imagine  us  on.  our  evening  walk  out  upon  the  East  Cliff,  a  mile  and  a 
half  from  our  present  abode.  We  have  passed  a  rough  pathway,  and,  weary  of  a 
long,  low  hedge,  the  very  symbol  of  sameness  and  almost  of  nothingness,  have 
struck  in  by  a  beach  which  the  sailors,  who  sit  there  with  their  observatory  teles- 
copes, have  made  upon  the  grassy  cliff,  and  are  looking  upon  the  sea  and  sky  and 
straggling  town  of  Herne  Bay.  The  ruddy  ball  is  sinking  ;  over  it  is  a  large 
feathery  mass  of  cloudage  that  was  swan's-down  but  now,  thrilled  through  with 
rosy  light,  resembles  pinky  crimson  flames,  and  the  dark  waters  below  are  tinged 
with  rose  color.  In  the  distance  appears  the  straggling  town,  with  its  tall  watch, 
or  rather  clock  tower,  and  its  long  pier,  like  a  leviathan  centipede,  walking  out  into 
the  waves.  This  time  we  are  home  before  dark  ;  another  evening  we  set  out  later, 
and  by  the  time  we  descend  the  cliff  it  is  dark,  and  as  we  are  pacing  down  the 
velvet  path,  as  we  call  the  smooth,  grassy  descent  which  leads  to  the  town,  there 
is  Nurse  in  her  black  cloak  waving  in  the  wind,  moving  toward  us  through  the 
dusk  like  a  magnified  bat. 

MRS.  SARA  COLERIDGE. 


SECESSION. 

I  WOULD  not  exaggerate  the  fearful  consequences  of  dissolution.  It  is  the 
breaking  up  of  a  federative  Union,  but  it  is  not  like  the  breaking  up  of  society. 
It  is  not  anarchy.  A  link  may  fall  from  the  chain,  and  the  link  may  still  be  per- 
fect, though  the  chain  have  lost  its  length  and  its  strength.  In  the  uniformity  of 
commercial  regulations,  in  matters  of  war  and  peace,  postal  arrangements,  foreign 
relations,  coinage,  copyrights,  tariff,  and  other  Federal  and  national  affairs,  this 
great  government  may  be  broken  ;  but  in  most  of  the  essential  liberties  and  rights 
which  government  is  the  agent  to  establish  and  protect,  the  seceding  State  has  no 
revolution,  and  the  remaining  States  can  have  none.  This  arises  from  that  refine- 
ment of  our  polity  which  makes  the  States  the  basis  of  our  instituted  labor.  Greece 
was  broken  by  the  Persian  power,  but  her  municipal  institutions  remained.  Hun- 
gary lost  her  national  crown,  but  her  home  institutions  remain.  South  Carolina 
may  preserve  her  constituted  domestic  authority,  but  she  must  be  content  to  glim- 
mer obscurely  remote  rather  than  shine  and  revolve  in  a  constellated  band.  She 
even  goes  out  by  the  ordinance  of  a  so-called  sovereign  convention,  content  to  lose 
by  her  isolation  that  youthful,  vehement,  exultant,  progressive  life,  which  is  our 
NATIONALITY  !  She  foregoes  the  hopes,  the  boasts,  the  flag,  the  music,  all  the 


A    FISHER   LAD. 


SECESSION.  129 

emotions,  all  the  traits,  and  all  the  energies  which,  when  combined  in  our  United 
States,  have  won  our  victories  in  war  and  our  miracles  of  national  advancement. 
Her  Governor,  Colonel  Pickens,  in  his  inaugural,  regretfully  "  looks  back  upon  the 
inheritance  South  Carolina  had  in  the  common  glories  and  triumphant  power  of 
this  wonderful  confederacy,  and  fails  to  find  language  to  express  the  feelings  of 
the  human  heart  as  he  turns  from  the  contemplation."  The  ties  of  brotherhood, 
interest,  lineage,  and  history  are  all  to  be  severed.  No  longer  are  we  to  salute  a 
South  Carolinian  with  the  "idem  sententiam  de  republica"  which  makes  unity  and 
nationality.  What  a  prestige  and  glory  are  here  dimmed  and  lost  in  the  contami- 
nated reason  of  man  ! 

Can  we  realize  it  ?  Is  it  a  masquerade,  to  last  for  a  night,  or  a  reality  to  be 
dealt  with,  with  the  world's  rough  passionate  handling  ?  It  is  sad  and  bad  enough  ; 
but  let  us  not  overtax  our  anxieties  about  it  as  yet.  It  is  not  the  sanguinary  regi- 
men of  the  French  revolution  ;  not  the  rule  of  assignats  and  guillotine  ;  not  the 
cry  of  "  Vivent  les  Rouges  !  A  mort  les  gendarmes  !  "  but  as  yet,  I  hope  I  may  say, 
the  peaceful  attempt  to  withdraw  from  the  burdens  and  benefits  of  the  Republic. 
Thus  it  is  unlike  every  other  revolution.  Still  it  is  revolution.  It  may,  according 
as  it  is  managed,  involve  consequences  more  terrific  than  any  revolution  since  gov- 
ernment began. 

If  the  Federal  Government  is  to  be  maintained,  its  strength  must  not  be  frit- 
tered away  by  conceding  the  theory  of  secession.  To  concede  secession  as  a  right, 
is  to  make  its  pathway  one  of  roses  and  not  of  thorns.  I  would  not  make  its  path- 
way so  easy.  If  the  government  has  any  strength  for  its  own  preservation,  the 
people  demand  it  should  be  put  forth  in  its  civil  and  moral  forces.  Dealing,  how- 
ever, with  a  sensitive  public  sentiment,  in  which  this  strength  reposes,  it  must 
not  be  rudely  exercised.  It  should  be  the  iron  hand  in  the  glove  of  velvet. 
Firmness  should  be  allied  with  kindness.  Power  should  assert  its  own  preroga- 
tive, but  in  the  name  of  law  and  love.  If  these  elements  are  not  thus  blended  in 
our  policy,  as  the  Executive  proposes,  our  government  will  prove  either  a  garment 
of  shreds  or  a  coat  of  mail.  We  want  neither.  .  .  . 

Before  we  enter  upon  a  career  of  force,  let  us  exhaust  every  effort  at  peace. 
Let  us  seek  to  excite  love  in  others  by  the  signs  of  love  in  ourselves.  Let  there 
be  no  needless  provocation  and  strife.  Let  every  reasonable  attempt  at  compro- 
mise be  considered.  Otherwise  we  have  a  terrible  alternative.  War,  in  this  age 
and  in  this  country,  sir,  should  be  the  ultima  ratio.  Indeed,  it  may  well  be  ques- 
tioned whether  there  is  any  reason  in  it  for  war.  What  a  war  !  Endless  in  its 
hate,  without  truce  and  without  mercy.  If  it  ended  ever,  it  would  only  be  after  a 
fearful  struggle  ;  and  then  with  a  heritage  of  hate  which  would  forever  forbid 
harmony.  .  .  . 

Small  States  and  great  States  ;  new  States  and  old  States  ;  slave  States  and 
free  States  ;  Atlantic  States  and  Pacific  States ;  gold  and  silver  States ;  iron  and  cop- 
per States  ;  grain  States  and  lumber  States  ;  river  States  and  lake  States;  —  all 
having  varied  interests  and  advantages,  would  seek  superiority  in  armed  strength. 
Pride,  animosity,  and  glory  would  inspire  every  movement.  God  shield  our  country 


i3o  SECESSION. 

from  such  a  fulfilment  of  the  prophecy  of  the  revered  founders  of  the  Union  !  Our 
struggle  would  be  no  short,  sharp  struggle.  Law,  and  even  religion  herself,  would 
become  false  to  their  divine  purpose.  Their  voice  would  no  longer  be  the  voice  of 
God,  but  of  his  enemy.  Poverty,  ignorance,  oppression,  and  its  handmaid,  coward- 
ice, breaking  out  into  merciless  cruelty  ;  slaves  false ;  freemen  slaves,  and  society 
itself  poisoned  at  the  cradle  and  dishonored  at  the  grave ;  —  its  life,  now  so  full  of 
blessings,  would  be  gone  with  the  life  of  a  fraternal  and  united  Statehood.  What 
sacrifice  is  too  great  to  prevent  such  a  calamity  ?  Is  such  a  picture  overdrawn  ? 
Already  its  outlines  appear.  What  means  the  inaugural  of  Governor  Pickens, 
when  he  says  :  "  From  the  position  we  may  occupy  toward  the  Northern  States, 
as  well  as  from  our  own  internal  structure  of  society,  the  government  may,  from 
necessity,  become  strongly  military  in  its  organization  "  ?  What  mean  the  minute- 
men  of  Governor  Wise  ?  What  the  Southern  boast  that  they  have  a  rifle  or  shot- 
gun to  each  family  ?  What  means  the  Pittsburgh  mob  ?  What  this  alacrity  to 
save  Forts  Moultrie  and  Pinckney  ?  What  means  the  boast  of  the  Southern  men 
of  being  the  best-armed  people  in  the  world,  not  counting  the  two  hundred  thou- 
sand stand  of  United  States  arms  stored  in  Southern  arsenals  ?  Already  Georgia 
has  her  arsenals,  with  eighty  thousand  muskets.  What  mean  these  lavish  grants 
of  money  by  Southern  Legislatures  to  buy  more  arms  ?  What  mean  these  rumors 
of  arms  and  force  on  the  Mississippi  ?  .  .  . 

Mr.  Speaker,  he  alone  is  just  to  his  country  ;  he  alone  has  a  mind  un warped  by 
section,  and  a  memory  unparalyzed  by  fear,  who  warns  against  precipitancy.  He 
who  could  hurry  this  nation  to  the  rash  wager  of  battle  is  not  fit  to  hold  the  seat 
of  legislation.  What  can  justify  the  breaking  up  of  our  institutions  into  belligerent 
fractions  ?  Better  this  marble  Capitol  were  levelled  to  the  dust ;  better  were  this 
Congress  struck  dead  in  its  deliberations  ;  better  an  immolation  of  every  ambition 
and  passion  which  here  have  met  to  shake  the  foundations  of  society  than  the  haz- 
ard of  these  consequences  !  .  .  .  I  appeal  to  Southern  men,  who  contemplate 
a  step  so  fraught  with  hazard  and  strife,  to  pause.  Clouds  are  about  us  !  There  is 
lightning  in  their  frown  !  Cannot  we  direct  it  harmlessly  to  the  earth  ?  The 
morning  and  evening  prayer  of  the  people  I  speak  for  in  such  weakness  rises  in 
strength  to  that  Supreme  Ruler  who,  in  noticing  the  fall  of  a  sparrow,  cannot  dis- 
regard the  fall  of  a  nation,  that  our  States  may  continue  to  be  as  they  have  been 
—  one ;  one  in  the  unreserve  of  a  mingled  national  being;  one  as  the  thought  of 
God  is  one ! 

SAMUEL  SULLIVAN  Cox. 


CO  VETO  USNESS.  — BERGERSON    AND    MOE.  131 


COVETOUSNESS. 

OF  covetousness  we  may  truly  say,  that  it  makes  both  the  Alpha  and  Omega 
in  the  devil's  alphabet,  and  that  it  is  the  first  vice  in  corrupt  nature  which  moves, 
and  the  last  which  dies.  For  look  upon  any  infant,  and  as  soon  as  it  can  but  move 
a  hand,  we  shall  see  it  reaching  out  after  something  or  other  which  it  should  not 
have ;  and  he  who  does  not  know  it  to  be  the  proper  and  peculiar  sin  of  old  age, 
seems  himself  to  have  the  dotage  of  that  age  upon  him,  whether  he  has  the  years 
or  no. 

The  covetous  person  lives  as  if  the  world  were  made  altogether  for  him,  and 
not  he  for  the  world,  to  take  in  every  thing,  and  to  part  with  nothing.  Charity  is 
accounted  no  grace  with  him,  nor  gratitude  any  virtue.  The  cries  of  the  poor 
never  enter  into  his  ears  ;  or  if  they  do,  he  has  always  one  ear  readier  to  let  them 
out  than  the  other  to  take  them  in.  In  a  word,  by  his  rapines  and  extortions,  he 
is  always  for  making  as  many  poor  as  he  can,  but  for  relieving  none  whom  he  either 
finds  or  makes  so.  So  that  it  is  a  question,  whether  his  heart  be  harder,  or  his  fist 
closer.  In  a  word,  he  is  a  pest  and  a  monster :  greedier  than  the  sea,  and  barrener 
than  the  shore. 

ROBERT  SOUTH. 


BERGERSON     AND     MOE. 

THE  firm  of  Bergerson  &  Moe,  cabinet-makers,  hired  a  tumble-down  shanty  in 
an  out-of-the-way  street  in  a  flourishing  Western  city,  and  hung  out  a  big  sign, 
which  served  the  double  purpose  of  hiding  the  insignificance  of  the  shanty  and  in- 
viting custom.  The  sign  was  Moe's  idea  ;  the  money  that  paid  for  it  was  Ber- 
gerson's.  As  they  were  contrasts  in  everything,  so  also  in  this :  Bergerson  had  a 
little  capital,  but  no  ideas  ;  Moe  had  an  abundance  of  ideas,  but  no  capital.  He 
was  so  handsome,  however,  so  overflowing  with  life  and  activity,  that  his  impecu- 
niosity  did  not  trouble  him.  The  streets  delighted  him  ;  the  enormous  drays  and 
trucks,  loaded  with  merchandise,  gave  him  the  keenest  enjoyment  ;  even  the  swing- 
ing bridges,  which  tried  the  souls  and  provoked  the  profanity  of  good  citizens,  ex- 
hilarated him.  He  swam  like  a  dexterous  eel  through  the  labyrinthine  turmoil,  and 
noted  the  unlimited  possibilities  for  advancment  which  this  seething  industrial 
democracy  afforded.  He  saw  himself  in  spirit  as  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  city, 
commanding  multitudes  of  men,  signing  subscription  papers  with  a  grand  flourish, 
and  making  speeches  at  public  dinners  with  the  proud  feeling  of  a  representative 
citizen.  He  saw  himself  vividly  in  all  these  situations,  and  felt  his  bosom  expand 
with  the  anticipated  triumph. 


I32  BERGERSON    AND     MOE, 

In  the  meanwhile  Bergerson  was  making  chairs  and  tables,  which  no  one  bought. 
Moe  was  not  fond  of  making  chairs,  but  he  made  some  clever  and  tasteful  designs, 
which,  after  much  discussion,  he  induced  his  partner  to  copy.  He  also  got  up  an 
ingenious  puzzle  with  polished  sticks  and  rings,  and,  after  having  peddled  this  in- 
vention for  a  few  days  on  the  street,  he  sold  it  to  a  large  firm  for  three  hundred 
dollars.  He  gained  immensely  in  Bergerson's  esteem  by  this  enterprise ;  but  lost 
again  more  than  he  had  gained  by  investing  his  surplus  in  a  tall  hat  and  a  fine  suit 
of  clothes  of  the  latest  fashion.  Bergerson  was  on  the  point  of  dissolving  the  part- 
nership when  he  saw  him  enter  the  shop  in  this  inappropriate  attire  ;  but  he  only 
growled,  and  worked  on  with  fiercer  energy.  Talking  was  always  a  serious  business 
with  him,  and  not  to  be  engaged  in  except  on  severe  provocation.  And  he  had 
reason  to  congratulate  himself  in  this  instance  that  he  did  not  act  on  his  first  im- 
pulse. For  during  the  next  days  he  was  dumfounded  by  a  sudden  rush  of  cus- 
tomers, who  bought  everything  he  had  to  sell  at  prices  which  he  himself  regarded 
as  exorbitant. 

It  turned  out  that  Moe,  dressed  in  his  modish  costume,  had  marched  through 
the  most  populous  streets  with  a  chair  on  his  head,  and  on  his  back  an  enormous 
placard,  on  which  the  following  verse  was  painted  in  big  letters  :  — 

"Ho  !  HO  !  HO! 

FOR  BERGERSON  AND  MOE  ! 
THEY  MAKE  CHAIRS  THAT  NEVER  BREAK,  SIR! 
OF  THE  LATEST  STYLE  AND  MAKE,  SIR  ! 

SPEED  ON  NIMBLE  TOE 

To  BERGERSON  AND  MOE." 

This  jingle  had  a  kind  of  captivating  rhythm  to  it  which  made  men  unconsciously 
march  to  it,  hum  it,  curse  it,  and  lay  awake  repeating  it  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
night.  One  tormented  man  recited  it  to  his  neighbor  in  the  hope  of  getting  rid  of 
it,  and  the  neighbor,  finding  all  other  remedies  unavailing,  took  the  hint  and  sped 
to  Bergerson  &  Moe. 

With  the  proceeds  of  their  unexpected  popularity  Bergerson  &  Moe  hired  a 
larger  shop,  and  engaged  a  couple  of  journeymen.  As  it  happened,  their  chairs 
were  equal  to  their  poetic  reputation,  for  Truls  Bergerson  knew  but  one  way  to 
work,  and  that  was  the  solid  Norwegian  way,  which  had  a  view  both  to  time  and 
eternity.  You  might  sit  on  his  chairs,  or  stand  on  them,  ride  horseback  on  them 
with  your  children,  or  fling  them  at  inconvenient  visitors — they  bore  it  all  with 
perfect  equanimity  ;  they  scarcely  changed  their  complexion,  and  they  never  broke. 
These  qualities  came  to  be  remarked  upon,  and  Moe  took  pains  that  no  one  should 
remain  in  ignorance  of  them.  At  the  same  time  he  visited,  in  the  guise  of  a  crit- 
ical customer,  every  furniture  dealer  in  town,  and  took  note  of  prices,  designs  and 
workmanship.  To  the  factories,  too,  he  gained  access  as  a  workman  out  of  em- 
ployment, and  made  everywhere  profitable  observations.  He  had  a  natural  knack, 
also,  at  designing,  and  kept  Bergerson  and  the  journeymen  busy  executing  his 


PALM    SUNDAY.  ,33 

brilliant  ideas.  Within  a  year  a  second  removal  became  necessary,  and  a  dozen 
journeymen  scarcely  sufficed  to  satisfy  the  public  craving  for  the  furniture  of 
Bergerson  &  Moe. 

If  Bergerson  had  been  capable  of  any  such  violent  emotion  as  surprise,  he 
would,  no  doubt,  have  indulged  in  vague  wonder  at  his  own  prosperity.  But  Ber- 
gerson was  not  at  all  emotional.  He  pocketed  his  money  stolidly,  and  with  no  re- 
flection except  where  he  had  better  keep  it.  And  after  having  carried  some  twelve 
hundred  dollars  on  his  person  for  several  months,  he  began  to  make  cautious  in- 
quiries, and  ended  by  investing  his  surplus  in  two  building  lots.  The  ground,  he 
reasoned,  could  not  run  away,  nor  could  any  one  run  away  with  it.  For  more  than 
a  week  he  entertained  himself,  every  evening,  by  reading  the  deed  (with  the  aid  of 
a  pocket  dictionary),  and  gazing  at  the  seals  and  signatures  with  quiet  satisfaction. 
Like  all  his  countrymen,  he  had  the  earth  hunger. 

HjALMAR    HjORTH    BOYESEN. 


PALM     SUNDAY. 

I  WRITE  to  you,  Madam,  from  a  place,  the  name  of  which  is,  I  fancy,  hardly  known 
to  you.  It  is  a  little  town  on  the  borders  of  Wales,  which  I  have  hurried  to  from 
the  circuit  in  order  to  pass  a  week  with  my  sister.  She  has  lately  come  hither  for 
the  sake  of  her  children's  breathing  the  pure  air  which  blows  from  the  Welsh 
mountains,  and  enjoying  the  pleasures  which  this  beautiful  country  affords.  It  is 
the  most  beautiful  country  that  I  have  seen  in  England,  or  any  where  else,  except 
in  Switzerland  ;  indeed,  it  very  much  resembles  some  parts  of  Switzerland,  but 
every  thing  is  on  a  smaller  scale  ;  the  mountains  are  less  high,  the  rocks  less 
craggy,  and  the  torrents  less  rapid.  The  valleys  are  perfectly  Swiss,  and  are  en- 
chanting :  scattered  over  with  villages  and  farm-houses,  and  portioned  out  into  a 
multitude  of  small  fields,  they  bespeak  a  happy  equality  of  property,  and  transport 
one  back  in  idea  to  the  infancy  of  society.  .  .  .  But  the  most  beautiful  objects 
in  this  country,  and  which  are  in  a  great  degree  independent  of  the  season,  are  the 
health,  the  cheerfulness,  and  the  contentment  which  appear  on  the  countenances  of 
the  inhabitants. 

The  poor  people  here  have  a  custom  which  I  never  knew  observed  anywhere 
else,  and  which  is  very  poetical,  and  very  affecting.  Once  a  year  (on  Palm  Sun- 
day) they  get  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  gather  the  violets  and  primroses,  and 
the  few  other  flowers  which  at  this  season  are  to  be  found  in  the  fields,  and  with 
their  little  harvest  they  hasten  to  the  churchyard  and  strew  the  flowers  over  the 
graves  of  their  nearest  relations.  Some  arrange  their  humble  tribute  of  affection 
in  different  forms  with  a  great  deal  of  taste.  The  young  girls  who  are  so  fortunate 
as  never  to  have  lost  any  near  relation  or  any  friend,  exert  themselves  that  the 


134 


MR.     BARKIS. 


tombs  of  the  strangers  who  have  died  in  the  village,  at  a  distance  from  all  who 
knew  them,  may  not  be  left  unhonored  ;  and  hardly  a  grave  appears  without  some 
of  these  affectionate  ornaments.  I  came  here  soon  after  this  ceremony  had  been 
observed  and  was  surprised,  on  walking  through  a  churchyard,  to  find  in  it  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  garden  ;  and  to  see  the  flowers  withering,  each  in  the 'place  in  which 
it  had  been  fixed.  .  .  . 

SIR  SAMUEL  ROMILLY. 


MR.     BARKIS. 


As  this  was  a  great  deal  for  the 
carrier  (whose  name  was  Mr.  Barkis) 
to  say  —  he  being,  as  I  observed  in  a 
former  chapter,  of  a  phlegmatic  tem- 
perament, and  not  at  all  conversational 
- 1  offered  him  a  cake  as  a  mark  of 
attention,  which  he  ate  at  one  gulp, 
exactly  like  an  elephant,  and  which 
made  no  more  impression  on  his  big 
face  than  it  would  have  done  on  an 
elephant's. 

"  Did   she  make  'em,  now  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Barkis,  always  leaning  forward,  in 
his  slouching  way,  on  the  foot-board  of 
the  cart,  with  an  arm  on  each  knee. 
"  Peggotty,  do  you  mean,  sir?" 
"  Ah  ! "  said  Mr.  Barkis.     "  Her." 
"  Yes.     She  makes  all  our  pastry, 
and  does  all  our  cooking." 

"Do she,  though?"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 
He  made   up  his  mouth   as  if  to 
whistle,  but  he  didn't  whistle.     He  sat 

looking  at  the  horse's  ears  as  if  he  saw  something  new  there  ;  and  sat  so  for  a  con- 
siderable time.     By-and-by  he  said  : 
"No  sweethearts,  I  b'lieve  ?  " 

"  Sweetmeats  did  you  say,  Mr.  Barkis  ?"     For  I  thought  he  wanted  something 
else  to  eat,  and  had  pointedly  alluded  to  that  description  of  refreshment. 
"  Hearts,"  said  Mr.  Barkis.     "  Sweethearts  ;  no  person  walks  with  her  ?  " 
"  With  Peggotty  ?  " 
"Ah!"  he  said.     "Her." 
"  Oh,  no.     She  never  had  a  sweetheart." 


MR.    BARKIS. 


MR.     BARKIS. 


'35 


"Didn't  she,  though  ?"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Again  he  made  up  his  mouth  to  whistle,  and  again  he  didn't  whistle,  but  sat 
looking  at  the  horse's  ears. 

"  So  she  makes,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  after  a  long  interval  of  reflection,  "  all  the 
apple  parsties,  and  doos  all  the  cooking,  do  she  ?  " 

I  replied  that  such  was  the»fact. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Mr.  Barkis.     "P'raps  you  might  bewritin'  to  her?" 

"  I  shall  certainly  write  to  her,"  I  rejoined. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  slowly  turning  his  eyes  toward  me.  "  Well !  if  you  was  writin' 
to  her,  p'raps  you'd  recollect  to  say  that  Barkis  was  willin'  ;  would  you  ?" 

"  That  Barkis  is  willing,"  I  repeated  innocently.     "  Is  that  all  the  message  ?  " 

"Ye-es,"  he  said,  considering.     "  Ye-es.     Barkis  is  willin'." 

"  But  you  will  be  at  Blunderstone  again  to-morrow,  Mr.  Barkis,"  I  said,  falter- 
ing a  little  at  the  idea  of  my  being  far  away  from  it  then,  "  and  could  give  your 
own  message  so  much  better." 

As  he  repudiated  this  suggestion,  however,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  and  once 
more  confirmed  his  previous  request  by  saying  with  profound  gravity,  "  Barkis  is 
willin'.  That's  the  message,"  I  readily  undertook  its  transmission.  While  I  was 
waiting  for  the  coach  in  the  hotel  at  Yarmouth  that  very  afternoon,  I  procured  a 
sheet  of  paper  and  an  inkstand,  and  wrote  a  note  to  Peggotty  which  ran  thus : 
"  My  dear  Peggotty.  I  have  come  here  safe.  Barkis  is  willing.  My  love  to 
mamma.  Yours  affectionately.  —  P.  S.  He  says  he  particularly  wants  you  to  know 
—  Barkis  is  willing. ' ' 

Mr.  Barkis  was  to  call  for  me  in  the  morning  at  nine  o'clock.  I  got  up  at  eight, 
a  little  giddy  from  the  shortness  of  my  night's  rest,  and  was  ready  for  him  before 
the  appointed  time.  He  received  me  exactly  as  if  not  five  minutes  had  elapsed 
since  we  were  last  together,  and  I  had  only  been  into  the  hotel  to  get  change  for 
sixpence,  or  something  of  that  sort. 

As  soon  as  I  and  my  box  were  in  the  cart,  and  the  carrier  seated,  the  lazy  horse 
walked  away  with  us  all  at  his  accustomed  pace. 

"  You  look  very  well,  Mr.  Barkis,"  I  said,  thinking  he  would  like  to  know  it. 

Mr.  Barkis  rubbed  his  cheek  with  his  cuff,  and  then  looked  at  his  cuff  as  if  he 
expected  to  find  some  of  the  bloom  upon  it  ;  but  made  no  other  acknowledgement 
of  the  compliment. 

"  I  gave  your  message,  Mr.  Barkis,"  I  said  ;  "  I  wrote  to  Peggotty." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Barkis.     Mr.  Barkis  seemed  gruff,  and  answered  dryly. 

"  Wasn't  it  right,  Mr.  Barkis  ?"  I  asked,  after  a  little  hesitation. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

"  Not  the  message  ?" 

"The  message  was  right  enough,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Barkis.  "  But  it  come  to 
an  end  there." 

Not  understanding  what  he  meant,  I  repeated  inquisitively,  "  Came  to  an  end, 
Mr.  Barkis  ?  " 


136  MR.     BARKIS. 

"  Nothing  come  of  it,"  he  explained,  looking  at  me  sideways.     "  No  answer." 

"There  was  an  answer  expected,  was  there,  Mr.  Barkis?  "  said  I,  opening  my 
eyes.  For  this  was  a  new  light  to  me. 

"When  a  man  says  he's  willin',''  said  Mr.  Barkis,  turning  his  glance  slowly  on 
me  again,  "it's  as  much  as  to  say,  that  man's  a-waitin'  for  a  answer." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  carrying  his  eyes  back  to  his  horse's  ears ;  "  that 
man's  been  a-waitin'  for  a  answer  ever  since." 

"  Have  you  told  her  so,  Mr.  Barkis  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  growled  Mr.  Barkis,  reflecting  about  it.  "  I  a'n't  got  no  call  to  go 
and  tell  her  so.  I  never  said  six  words  to  her  myself.  /  a'n't  a-goin'  to  tell  her 
so." 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  do  it,  Mr.  Barkis  ?"  said  I,  doubtfully. 

"  You  might  tell  her,  if  you  would,"  said  Mr.  Barkis,  with  another  slow  look  at 
me,  "that  Barkis  was  a-waitin'  for  a  answer.  Says  you —  what  name  is  it  ?  " 

"Her  name?" 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Barkis,  with  a  nod  of  his  head. 

"Peggotty." 

"  Chrisen  name,  or  nat'ral  name  ?  "  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

"Oh,  it's  not  her  Christian  name.     Her  Christian  name  is  Clara." 

"  Is  it  though  !  "  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

He  seemed  to  find  an  immense  fund  of  reflection  in  this  circumstance,  and  sat 
pondering  and  inwardly  whistling  for  some  time. 

"  Well  !  "  he  resumed  at  length.  "  Says  you,  '  Peggotty!  Barkis  is  a-waitin'  for 
a  answer.'  Says  she,  perhaps,  'Answer  to  what?'  Says  you,  'To  what  I  told 
you.'  'What  is  that?'  says  she.  'Barkis  is  willin','  says  you." 

This  extremely  artful  suggestion  Mr.  Barkis  accompanied  with  a  nudge  of  his 
elbow  that  gave  me  quite  a  stitch  in  my  side.  After  that,  he  slouched  over  his 
horse  in  his  usual  manner  ;  and  made  no  other  reference  to  the  subject  except,  half 
an  hour  afterward,  taking  a  piece  of  chalk  from  his  pocket,  and  writing  up  inside 
the  tilt  of  the  cart,  "  Clara  Peggotty,"  —  apparently  as  a  private  memorandum. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


SPXf.YG     IN    NEW    ENGLAND. 


i37 


IN    A   SEA    OF  GLORY. 


SPRING     IN     NEW     ENGLAND. 


IN  our  methodical  New  England  life,  we  still  recognize  some  magic  in  summer. 
Most  persons  at  least  resign  themselves  to  being  decently  happy  in  June.  They 
accept  June.  They  compliment  its  weather.  They  complain  of  the  earlier  months 
as  cold,  and  so  spend  them  in  the  city  ;  and  they  complain  of  the  later  months  as 
hot,  and  so  refrigerate  themselves  on  some  barren  sea-coast.  God  offers  us  yearly 
a  necklace  of  twelve  pearls ;  most  men  choose  the  fairest,  label  it  June,  and  cast 
the  rest  away.  It  is  time  to  chant  a  hymn  of  more  liberal  gratitude. 

There  are  no  days  in  the  whole  round  year  more  delicious  than  those  which 
often  come  to  us  in  the  latter  half  of  April. 

On  these  days  one  goes  forth  in  the  morning,  and  finds  an  Italian  warmth 
brooding  over  all  the  hills  ;  taking  visible  shape  in  a  glistening  mist  of  silvered 
azure,  with  which  mingles  the  smoke  from  many  bonfires.  The  sun  trembles  in 
his  own  soft  rays,  till  one  understands  the  old  English  tradition,  that  he  dances  on 
Easter-Day.  Swimming  in  a  sea  of  glory,  the  tops  of  the  hills  look  nearer  than 
their  bases,  and  their  glistening  water-courses  seem  close  to  the  eye,  as  is  their 
liberated  murmur  to  the  ear.  All  across  this  broad  intervale  the  teams  are  plough- 


138  CONTINENTAL     CONGRESS, 

ing.  The  grass  in  the  meadow  seems  all  to  have  grown  green  since  yesterday. 
The  blackbirds  jangle  in  the  oak,  the  robin  is  perched  upon  the  elm,  the  song- 
sparrow  on  the  hazel,  and  the  bluebird  on  the  apple-tree.  There  rises  a  hawk  and 
sails  slowly,  the  stateliest  of  airy  things,  a  floating  dream  of  long  and  languid  sum- 
mer-hours. But  as  yet,  though  there  is  warmth  enough  for  a  sense  of  luxury, 
there  is  coolness  enough  for  exertion.  No  tropics  can  offer  such  a  burst  of  joy  ; 
indeed,  no  zone  much  warmer  than  our  Northern  States  can  offer  a  genuine  spring. 
There  can  be  none  where  there  is  no  winter,  and  the  monotone  of  the  season  is 
broken  only  by  wearisome  rains.  Vegetation  and  birds  being  distributed  over  the 
year,  there  is  no  burst  of  verdure  nor  of  song. 

But  with  us,  as  the  buds  are  swelling,  the  birds  are  arriving  ;  they  are  building 
their  nests  almost  simultaneously  ;  and  in  all  the  Southern  year  there  is  no  such 
rapture  of  beauty  and  of  melody  as  here  marks  every  morning  from  the  last  of 
April  onward. 

But  days  even  earlier  than  those  in  April  have  a  charm  ;  —  even  days  that  seem 
raw  and  rainy,  when  the  sky  is  dull  and  a  bequest  of  March-wind  lingers,  chasing 
the  squirrel  from  the  tree  and  the  children  from  the  meadows.  There  is  a  fascina- 
tion in  walking  through  these  bare  early  woods  —  there  is  such  a  pause  of  prepa- 
ration, winter's  work  is  so  cleanly  and  thoroughly  done.  Everything  is  taken  down 
and  put  away  ;  throughout  the  leafy  arcades  the  branches  show  no  remnant  of  last 
year,  save  a  few  twisted  leaves  of  oak  and  beech,  a  few  empty  seed-vessels  of  the 
tardy  witch-hazel,  and  a  few  gnawed  nutshells  dropped  coquettishly  by  the  squir- 
rels into  the  crevices  of  the  bark.  All  else  is  bare,  but  prophetic  ;  buds  every- 
where, the  whole  splendor  of  the  coming  summer  concentrated  in  those  hard  little 
knobs  on  every  bough,  and  clinging  here  and  there  among  them,  a  brown,  papery 
chrysalis,  from  which  shall  yet  wave  the  superb  wings  of  the  Luna  moth. 

An  occasional  shower  patters  on  the  dry  leaves,  but  it  does  not  silence  the 
robin  on  the  outskirts  of  the  wood  ;  indeed,  he  sings  louder  than  ever  during  rain, 
though  the  song-sparrow  and  the  bluebird  are  silent. 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON. 


CONTINENTAL     CONGRESS. 

THE  dying  embers  of  the  Continental  Congress,  barely  kept  alive  for  some 
months  by  the  occasional  attendance  of  one  or  two  delegates,  as  the  day  ap- 
proached *  for  the  new  system  to  be  organized,  quietly  went  out,  without  note  or 
observation.  History  knows  few  bodies  so  remarkable.  The  Long  Parliament  of 
Charles  I.,  and  the  French  National  Assembly,  are  alone  to  be  compared  with  it. 
Coming  together,  in  the  first  instance,  a  mere  collection  of  consulting  delegates, 
the  Continental  Congress  had  boldly  seized  the  reins  of  power,  assumed  the  leader- 

*  March  3,  1789. 


A    PROMISE   OF    THE    SPRING. 


THE     SIEGE     OF    LEYDEN.  141 

ship  of  the  insurgent  States,  issued  bills  of  credit,  raised  armies,  declared  indepen- 
dence, negotiated  foreign  treaties,  carried  the  nation  through  an  eight  years'  war ; 
finally,  had  extorted  from  the  proud  and  powerful  mother-country  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  sovereign  authority  so  daringly  assumed  and  so  indomitably  maintained. 
But  this  brilliant  career  had  been  as  short  as  it  was  glorious.  The  decline  had 
commenced  even  in  the  midst  of  the  war.  Exhausted  by  such  extraordinary  efforts, 
—  smitten  with  the  curse  of  poverty,  their  paper  money  first  depreciating  and  then 
repudiated,  overwhelmed  with  debts  which  they  could  not  pay,  pensioners  on  the 
bounty  of  France,  insulted  by  mutineers,  scouted  at  by  the  public  creditors,  unable 
to  fulfill  the  treaties  they  had  made,  bearded  and  encroached  upon  by  the  State 
authorities,  issuing  fruitless  requisitions  which  they  had  no  power  to  enforce, 
vainly  begging  for  additional  authority  which  the  States  refused  to  grant,  thrown 
more  and  more  into  the  shade  by  the  very  contrast  of  former  power — the  Con- 
tinental Congress  sunk  fast  into  decrepitude  and  contempt.  Feeble  is  the  senti- 
ment of  political  gratitude  !  Debts  of  that  sort  are  commonly  left  for  posterity 
to  pay.  While  all  eyes  were  turned  —  some  with  doubt  and  some  with  apprehen- 
sion, but  the  greater  part  with  hope  and  confidence  —  towards  the  ample  authority 
vested  in  the  new  government  now  about  to  be  organized,  not  one  respectful  word 
seems  to  have  been  uttered,  not  a  single  reverential  regret  to  have  been  dropped 
over  the  fallen  greatness  of  the  exhausted  and  expiring  Continental  Congress. 

RICHARD  HILDRETH. 


THE     SIEGE     OF     LEYDEN. 

MEANTIME,  the  besieged  city  was  at  its  last  gasp.  The  burghers  had  been  in 
a  state  of  uncertainty  for  many  days  ;  being  aware  that  the  fleet  had  set  forth  for 
their  relief,  but  knowing  full  well  the  thousand  obstacles  which  it  had  to  surmount. 
They  had  guessed  its  progress  by  the  illumination  from  the  blazing  villages  ;  they 
had  heard  its  salvos  of  artillery  on  its  arrival  at  North  Aa  ;  but  since  then,  all  had 
been  dark  and  mournful  again,  hope  and  fear,  in  sickening  alternation,  distracting 
every  breast.  They  knew  that  the  wind  was  unfavorable,  and  at  the  dawn  of  each 
day  every  eye  was  turned  wistfully  to  the  vanes  of  the  steeples.  So  long  as  the 
easterly  breeze  prevailed,  they  felt,  as  they  anxiously  stood  on  towers  and  house- 
tops, that  they  must  look  in  vain  for  the  welcome  ocean.  Yet,  while  thus  patiently 
waiting,  they  were  literally  starving  ;  for  even  the  misery  endured  at  Harlem  had 
not  reached  that  depth  and  intensity  of  agony  to  which  Leyden  was  now  reduced. 
Bread,  malt-cake,  horse-flesh,  had  entirely  disappeared  ;  dogs,  cats,  rats,  and  other 
vermin,  were  esteemed  luxuries.  A  small  number  of  cows,  kept  as  long  as  possible, 
for  their  milk,  still  remained  ;  but  a  few  were  killed  from  day  to  day,  and  dis- 
tributed in  minute  proportions,  hardly  sufficient  to  support  life  among  the  famish- 
ing population.  Starving  wretches  swarmed  daily  around  the  shambles  where 


i42  THE     SIEGE     OF    LEYDEN. 

these  cattle  were  slaughtered,  contending  for  any  morsel  which  might  fall,  and 
lapping  eagerly  the  blood  as  it  ran  along  the  pavement ;  while  the  hides,  chopped 
and  boiled,  were  greedily  devoured.  Women  and  children,  all  day  long,  were 
seen  searching  gutters  and  dunghills  for  morsels  of  food,  which  they  disputed 
fiercely  with  the  famishing  dogs.  The  green  leaves  were  stripped  from  the  trees, 
every  living  herb  was  converted  into  human  food  ;  but  these  expedients  could  not 
avert  starvation.  The  daily  mortality  was  frightful :  infants  starved  to  death  on 
the  maternal  breasts  which  famine  had  parched  and  withered  ;  mothers  dropped 
dead  in  the  streets,  with  their  dead  children  in  their  arms.  In  many  a  house  the 
watchmen,  in  their  rounds,  found  a  whole  family  of  corpses  —  father,  mother,  chil- 
dren, side  by  side  ;  for  a  disorder  called  the  plague,  naturally  engendered  of  hard-- 
ship and  famine,  now  came,  as  if  in  kindness,  to  abridge  the  agony  of  the  people. 
The  pestilence  stalked  at  noonday  through  the  city,  and  the  doomed  inhabitants 
fell  like  grass  beneath  its  scythe.  From  six  thousand  to  eight  thousand  human 
beings  sank  before  this  scourge  alone;  yet  the  people  resolutely  held  out  — women 
and  men  mutually  encouraging  each  other  to  resist  the  entrance  of  their  foreign  foe 
—  an  evil  more  horrible  than  pest  or  famine. 

Leyden  was  sublime  in  its  despair.  A  few  murmurs  were,  however,  occasion- 
ally heard  at  the  steadfastness  of  the  magistrates,  and  a  dead  body  was  placed  at 
the  door  of  the  burgomaster,  as  a  silent  witness  against  his  inflexibility.  A  party 
of  the  more  faint-hearted  even  assailed  the  heroic  Adrian  Vander  Werf  with  threats 
and  reproaches  as  he  passed  through  the  streets.  A  crowd-had  gathered  around  him 
as  he  reached  a  triangular  place  in  the  center  of  the  town,  into  which  many  of  the 
principal  streets  emptied  themselves,  and  upon  one  side  of  which  stood  the  church 
of  St.  Pancras.  There  stood  the  burgomaster,  a  tall,  haggard,  imposing  figure, 
with  dark  visage  and  a  tranquil  but  commanding  eye.  He  waved  his  broad-leaved 
felt  hat  for  silence,  and  then  exclaimed,  in  language  which  has  been  almost  literally 
preserved,  "What  would  ye,  my  friends?  Why  do  ye  murmur  that  we  do  not 
break  our  vows  and  surrender  the  city  to  the  Spaniards  ?  —  a  fate  more  horrible 
than  the  agony  which  she  now  endures.  I  tell  you  I  have  made  an  oath  to  hold 
the  city  ;  and  may  God  give  me  strength  to  keep  my  oath  !  I  can  die  but  once, 
whether  by  your  hands,  the  enemy's,  or  by  the  hand  of  God.  My  own  fate  is  in- 
different to  me  ;  not  so  that  of  the  city  intrusted  to  my  care.  I  know  that  we  shall 
starve  if  not  soon  relieved  ;  but  starvation  is  preferable  to  the  dishonored  death 
which  is  the  only  alternative.  Your  menaces  move  me  not  ;  my  life  is  at  your  dis- 
posal ;  here  is  my  sword,  plunge  it  into  my  breast,  and  divide  my  flesh  among  you. 
Take  my  body  to  appease  your  hunger,  but  expect  no  surrender  so  long  as  I  remain 
alive."  .  .  . 

On  the  28th  of  September,  a  dove  flew  into  the  city,  bringing  a  letter  from  Ad, 
miral  Boisot.  In  this  despatch,  the  position  of  the  fleet  at  North  Aa  was  described 
in  encouraging  terms,  and  the  inhabitants  were  assured  that,  in  a  very  few  days  at 
furthest,  the  long-expected  relief  would  enter  their  gates.  The  tempest  came  to 
their  relief.  A  violent  equinoctial  gale,  on  the  night  of  the  ist  and  2d  of  October, 
came  storming  from  the  northwest,  shifting  after  a  few  hours  full  eight  points,  and 


POPULAR     CULTURE.  143 

then  blowing  still  more  violently  from  the  southwest.  The  waters  of  the  North 
Sea  were  piled  in  vast  masses  upon  the  southern  coast  of  Holland,  and  then  dashed 
furiously  landward,  the  ocean  rising  over  the  earth  and  sweeping  with  unrestrained 
power  across  the  ruined  dykes.  In  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours,  the  fleet  at 
North  Aa,  instead  of  nine  inches,  had  more  than  two  feet  of  water.  .  .  .  On 
it  went,  sweeping  over  the  broad  waters  which  lay  between  Zoeterwoude  and 
Zwieten  ;  as  they  approached  some  shallows  which  led  into  the  great  mere,  the 
Zealanders  dashed  into  the  sea,  and  with  sheer  strength  shouldered  every  vessel 
through.  .  .  .  On  again  the  fleet  of  Boisot  still  went,  and,  overcoming  every 
obstacle,  entered  the  city  on  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  October.  Leyden  was 
relieved. 

JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY. 


POPULAR     CULTURE. 

.  .  .  IT  is  true  that  the  old  world  moves  tardily  on  its  arduous  way,  but 
even  if  the  results  of  all  our  efforts  in  the  cause  of  education  were  smaller  than 
they  are,  there  are  still  two  considerations  that  ought  to  weigh  with  us  and  encour- 
age us. 

There  is  another  thought  to  encourage  us,  still  more  direct,  and  still  more  posi- 
tive. The  boisterous  old  notion  of  hero-worship,  which  has  been  preached  by  so 
eloquent  a  voice  in  our  age,  is,  after  all,  now  seen  to  be  a  half-truth,  and  to  contain 
the  less  edifying  and  the  less  profitable  half  of  the  truth.  The  world  will  never  be 
able  to  spare  its  hero,  and  the  man  with  the  rare  and  inexplicable  gift  of  genius 
will  always  be  as  commanding  a  figure  as  he  has  ever  been.  What  we  see  every 
day  with  increasing  clearness  is  that  not  only  the  well-being  of  the  many,  but  the 
chances  of  exceptional  genius,  moral  or  intellectual,  in  the  gifted  few,  are  highest 
in  a  society  where  the  average  interest,  curiosity,  capacity,  are  all  highest.  The 
moral  of  this  for  you  and  for  me  is  plain.  We  cannot,  like  Beethoven  or  Handel, 
lift  the  soul  by  the  magic  of  divine  melody  into  the  seventh  heaven  of  ineffable 
vision  and  hope  incommensurable ;  we  cannot,  like  Newton,  weigh  the  far-off  stars 
in  a  balance,  and  measure  the  heavings  of  the  eternal  flood  ;  we  cannot,  like  Vol- 
taire, scorch  up  what  is  cruel  and  false  by  a  word  as  a  flame  ;  nor,  like  Milton  or 
Burke,  awaken  men's  hearts  with  the  note  of  an  organ-trumpet  ;  we  cannot,  like 
the  great  saints  of  the  churches  and  the  great  sages  of  the  schools,  add  to  those 
acquisitions  of  spiritual  beauty  and  intellectual  mastery  which  have,  one  by  one, 
and  little  by  little,  raised  man  from  being  no  higher  than  the  brute  to  be  only  a 
little  lower  than  the  angels.  But  what  we  can  do  —  the  humblest  of  us  in  this 
great  hall  — is  by  diligently  using  our  own  minds  and  diligently  seeking  to  extend 


144  A     QUESTION    OF    SUPREMACY. 

our  own  opportunities  to  others,  to  help  to  swell  that  common  tide,  on  the  force 
and  the  set  of  whose  currents  depends  the  prosperous  voyaging  of  humanity. 
When  our  names  are  blotted  out,  and  our  place  knows  us  no  more,  the  energy  of 
each  social  service  will  remain,  and  so,  too,  let  us  not  forget,  will  each  social  dis- 
service remain,  like  the  unending  stream  of  one  of  nature's  forces.  The  thought 
that  this  is  so,  may  well  lighten  the  poor  perplexities  of  our  daily  life,  and  even 
soothe  the  pang  of  its  calamities  ;  it  lifts  us  from  our  feet  as  on  wings,  opening  a 
larger  meaning  to  our  private  toil  and  a  higher  purpose  to  our  public  endeavor ;  it 
makes  the  morning  as  we  awake  to  its  welcome,  and  the  evening  like  a  soft  gar- 
ment as  it  wraps  us  about  ;  it  nerves  our  arm  with  boldness  against  oppression 
and  injustice,  and  strengthens  our  voice  with  deeper  accents  against  falsehood, 
while  we  are  yet  in  the  full  noon  of  our  days  —  yes,  and  perhaps  it  will  shed  some 
ray  of  consolation,  when  our  eyes  are  growing  dim  to  it  all,  and  we  go  down  into 
the  Valley  of  Darkness. 

JOHN  MORLEY. 


A     QUESTION     OF     SUPREMACY. 

I  HAVE  received  a  present  of  a  pair  of  Cochin-Chinas,  a  superb  cock  and  a  dun- 
colored  hen.  I  put  them  with  my  other  fowls  in  the  cellar,  to  protect  them  for  a 
short  time  from  the  severity  of  the  weather.  My  Shanghai  rooster  had  for  several 
nights  been  housed  up  ;  for  on  one  occasion,  when  the  cold  was  snapping,  he  was 
discovered  under  the  lee  of  a  stone  wall,  standing  on  one  leg,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
approach  of  any  one,  and  nearly  gone.  When  brought  in,  he  backed  up  against 
the  red-hot  kitchen  stove,  and  burnt  his  tail  off.  Before  this  he  had  no  feathers 
in  the  rear  to  speak  of,  and  now  he  is  bob-tailed  indeed.  Anne  sewed  upon  him  a 
jacket  of  carpet,  and  put  him  in  a  tea-box  for  the  night  ;  and  it  was  ludicrous  on 
the  next  morning  to  see  him  lifting  up  his  head  above  the  square  prison-box,  and 
crowing  lustily  to  greet  the  day.  But  before  breakfast-time  he  had  a  dreadful  fit. 
He  retreated  against  the  wall,  he  fell  upon  his  side,  he  kicked,  and  he  "  carried 
on  "  ;  but  when  the  carpet  was  taken  off,  he  came  to  himself,  and  ate  corn  with  a 
voracious  appetite.  His  indisposition  was,  no  doubt,  occasioned  by  a  rush  of  blood 
to  the  head  from  the  tightness  of  the  bandages.  When  Shanghai  and  Cochin  met 
together  in  the  cellar,  they  enacted  in  that  dusky  hole  all  the  barbarities  of  a  pro- 
fane cockpit.  I  heard  a  sound  as  if  from  the  tumbling  of  barrels,  followed  by  a 
dull,  thumping  noise,  like  spirit-rappings,  and  went  below,  where  the  first  object 
which  met  my  eye  was  a  mouse  creeping  along  the  beam  out  of  an  excavation  in 
my  pine-apple  cheese.  As  for  the  fowls,  instead  of  salutation  after  the  respectful 
manner  of  their  country  —  which  is  expressed  thus:  Shang  knocks  knees  to 
Cochin,  bows  three  times,  touches  the  ground,  and  makes  obeisance  —  they  were 


ON    THE    ART    OF    LIVING     WITH    OTHERS.  145 

engaged  in  a  bloody  fight,  unworthy  of  celestial  poultry.  With  their  heads  down, 
eyes  flashing,  and  red  as  vipers,  and  with  a  feathery  frill  or  ruffle  about  their  necks, 
they  were  leaping  at  each  other,  to  see  who  should  hold  dominion  over  the  ash- 
heap.  It  put  me  exactly  in  mind  of  two  Scythians  or  two  Greeks  in  America, 
where  each  wished  to  be  considered  the  only  Scythian  or  only  Greek  in  the  country. 
A  contest  or  emulation  is  at  all  times  highly  animating  and  full  of  zest,  whether 
two  scholars  write,  two  athletes  strive,  two  boilers  strain,  or  two  cocks  fight. 
Every  lazy  dog  in  the  vicinity  is  immediately  at  hand.  I  looked  on  until  I  saw 
the  Shanghai's  peepers  darkened,  and  his  comb  streaming  with  blood.  These 
birds  contended  for  some  days  after  for  pre-eminence,  on  the  lawn,  and  no  flinch- 
ing could  be  observed  on  either  part,  although  the  Shanghai  was  by  one  third  the 
smaller  of  the  two.  At  last  the  latter  was  thoroughly  mortified  ;  his  eyes  wavered 
and  wandered  vaguely,  as  he  stood  opposite  the  foe  ;  he  turned  tail  and  ran.  From 
that  moment  he  became  the  veriest  coward,  and  submitted  to  every  indignity  with- 
out attempting  to  resist.  He  suffered  himself  to  be  chased  about  the  lawn,  fled 
from  the  Indian  meal,  and  was  almost  starved.  Such  submission  on  his  part  at 
last  resulted  in  peace,  and  the  two  rivals  walked  side  by  side  without  fighting,  and 
ate  together,  with  a  mutual  concession,  of  the  corn.  This,  in  turn,  engendered  a 
degree  of  presumption  on  the  part  of  the  Shanghai  cock  ;  and  one  day,  when  the 
dew  sparkled  and  the  sun  shone  peculiarly  bright,  he  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to 
ascend  a  hillock  and  venture  on  a  tolerably  triumphant  crow.  It  showed  a  lack  of 
judgment;  his  cock-a-doodle-doo  proved  fatal.  Scarcely  had  he  done  so,  when 
Cochin-China  rushed  upon  him,  tore  out  his  feathers,  and  flogged  him  so  severely 
that  it  was  doubtful  whether  he  would  remain  with  us.  Now,  alas  !  he  presents  a 
sad  spectacle :  his  comb  frozen  off,  his  tail  burnt  off,  and  his  head  knocked  to  a 
jelly.  While  the  corn  jingles  in  the  throats  of  his  compeers  when  they  eagerly 
snap  it,  as  if  they  were  eating  from  a  pile  of  shilling  pieces  or  fi'-penny  bits,  he 
stands  aloof  and  grubs  in  the  ground.  How  changed  ! 

FREDERICK  WILLIAM  SHELTON. 


ON     THE     ART     OF     LIVING     WITH     OTHERS. 

WE  come  now  to  the  consideration  of  temper,  which  might  have  been  expected 
to  be  treated  first.  But  to  cut  off  the  means  and  causes  of  bad  temper  is,  perhaps, 
of  as  much  importance  as  any  direct  dealing  with  the  temper  itself.  Besides,  it  is 
probable  that  in  small  social  circles  there  is  more  suffering  from  unkindness  than 
ill-temper.  Anger  is  a  thing  that  those  who  live  under  us  suffer  more  from  than 
those  who  live  with  us.  But  all  the  forms  of  ill-humor  and  sour-sensitiveness, 
which  especially  belong  to  equal  intimacy  (though  indeed  they  are  common  to  all), 


146  THE    INVENTION    OF     GUNPOWDER. 

are  best  to  be  met  by  impassiveness.  When  two  sensitive  persons  are  shut  up  to- 
gether, they  go  on  vexing  each  other  with  a  reproductive  irritability.  But  sensi- 
tive and  hard  people  get  on  well  together.  The  supply  of  temper  is  not  altogether 
out  of  the  usual  laws  of  supply  and  demand. 

Intimate  friends  and  relations  should  be  careful  when  they  go  out  into  the 
world  together,  or  admit  others  to  their  own  circle,  that  they  do  not  make  a  bad 
use  of  the  knowledge  which  they  have  gained  of  each  other  by  their  intimacy. 
Nothing  is  more  common  than  this,  and  did  it  not  mostly  proceed  from  mere  care- 
lessness it  would  be  superlatively  ungenerous.  You  seldom  need  wait  for  the 
written  life  of  a  man  to  hear  about  his  weaknesses,  or  what  are  supposed  to  be 
such,  if  you  know  his  intimate  friends,  or  meet  him  in  company  with  them.  .  .  . 

Lastly,  in  conciliating  those  we  live  with,  it  is  most  surely  done,  not  by  con- 
sulting their  interests,  nor  by  giving  away  to  their  opinions,  so  much  as  by  not 
offending  their  tastes.  The  most  refined  part  of  us  lies  in  this  region  of  taste, 
which  is  perhaps  a  result  of  our  whole  being  rather  than  a  part  of  our  nature,  and 
at  any  rate  is  the  region  of  our  most  subtle  sympathies  and  antipathies. 

It  may  be  said  that  if  the  great  principles  of  Christianity  were  attended  to,  all 
such  rules,  suggestions,  and  observations  as  the  above  would  be  needless.  True 
enough  !  Great  principles -are  at  the  bottom  of  all  things  ;  but  to  apply  them  to 
daily  life,  many  little  rules,  precautions,  and  insights  are  needed.  Such  things  hold 
a  middle  place  between  real  life  and  principles,  as  form  does  between  matter  and 
spirit  ;  moulding  the  one  and  expressing  the  other. 

ARTHUR  HELPS. 


THE     INVENTION     OF     GUNPOWDER. 

THE  only  hope  of  salvation  for  the  Greek  empire  and  the  adjacent  kingdoms, 
would  have  been  some  more  powerful  weapon,  some  discovery  in  the  art  of  war, 
that  should  give  them  a  decisive  superiority  over  their  Turkish  foes.  Such  a 
weapon  was  in  their  hands  ;  such  a  discovery  had  been  made  in  the  critical  moment 
of  their  fate.  The  chemists  of  China  or  Europe  had  found,  by  casual  or  elaborate 
experiments,  that  a  mixture  of  saltpetre,  sulphur,  and  charcoal,  produces,  with  a 
spark  of  fire,  a  tremendous  explosion.  It  was  soon  observed,  that  if  the  expansive 
force  were  compressed  in  a  strong  tube,  a  ball  of  stone  or  iron  might  be  expelled 
with  irresistible  and  destructive  velocity.  The  precise  era  of  the  invention  and 
application  of  gunpowder  is  involved  in  doubtful  traditions  and  equivocal  language ; 
yet  we  may  clearly  discern  that  it  was  known  before  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth 
century  ;  and  that  before  the  end  of  the  same,  the  use  of  artillery  in  battles  and 
sieges,  by  sea  and  land,  was  familiar  to  the  states  of  Germany,  Italy,  Spain,  France, 
and  England.  The  priority  of  nations  is  of  small  account  ;  none  could  derive  any 


THE    INVENTION    OF    GUNPOWDER.  147 

exclusive  benefit  from  their  previous  or  superior  knowledge  ;  and  in  the  common 
improvement,  they  stood  on  the  same  level  of  relative  power  and  military  science. 
Nor  was  it  possible  to  circumscribe  the  secret  within  the  pale  of  the  church  ;  it 
was  disclosed  to  the  Turks  by  the  treachery  of  apostates  and  the  selfish  policy  of 
rivals  ;  and  the  sultans  had  sense  to  adopt,  and  wealth  to  reward,  the  talents  of  a 
Christian  engineer.  The  Genoese,  who  transported  Amurath  into  Europe,  must 
be  accused  as  his  preceptors  ;  and  it  was  probably  by  their  hands  that  his  cannon 
was  cast  and  directed  at  the  siege  of  Constantinople.  The  first  attempt  was  in- 
deed unsuccessful ;  but  in  the  general  warfare  of  the  age,  the  advantage  was  on 
their  side  who  were  most  commonly  the  assailants  ;  for  a  while  the  proportion  of 
the  attack  and  defence  was  suspended  ;  and  this  thundering  artillery  was  pointed 
against  the  walls  and  towers  which  had  been  erected  only  to  resist  the  less  potent 
engines  of  antiquity.  By  the  Venetians,  the  use  of  gunpowder  was  communicated 
without  reproach  to  the  sultans  of  Egypt  and  Persia,  their  allies  against  the 
Ottoman  power ;  the  secret  was  soon  propagated  to  the  extremities  of  Asia ;  and 
the  advantage  of  the  European  was  confined  to  his  easy  victories  over  the  savages 
of  the  New  World.  If  we  contrast  the  rapid  progress  of  this  mischievous  discovery 
with  the  slow  and  laborious  advances  of  reason,  science,  and  the  arts  of  peace,  a 
philosopher,  according  to  his  temper,  will  laugh  or  weep  at  the  folly  of  mankind. 

EDWARD  GIBBON. 


EXPERTS    IN    THE    ART   OF    WAR. 


148  A     LESSON    IN    PATRIOTISM. 


A     LESSON     IN     PATRIOTISM. 

I  FIRST  came  to  understand  anything  about  "  the  man  without  a  country  "  one 
day  when  we  overhauled  a  dirty  little  schooner  which  had  slaves  on  board.  An 
officer  was  sent  to  take  charge  of  her,  and,  after  a  few  minutes,  he  sent  back  his 
boat  to  ask  that  some  one  might  be  sent  him  who  could  speak  Portuguese.  We 
were  all  looking  over  the  rail  when  the  message  came,  and  we  all  wished  we  could 
interpret  when  the  captain  asked  who  spoke  Portuguese.  But  none  of  the  officers 
did ;  and  just  as  the  captain  was  sending  forward  to  ask  if  any  of  the  people  could, 
Nolan  stepped  out  and  said  he  should  be  glad  to  interpret,  if  the  captain  wished,  as 
he  understood  the  language.  The  captain  thanked  him,  fitted  out  another  boat 
with  him,  and  in  this  boat  it  was  my  luck  to  go. 

When  we  got  there,  it  was  such  a  scene  as  you  seldom  see,  and  never  want  to. 
Nastiness  beyond  account,  and  chaos  run  loose  in  the  midst  of  the  nastiness. 
There  were  not  a  great  many  of  the  negroes  ;  but  by  way  of  making  what  there 
were  understand  that  they  were  free,  Vaughan  had  had  their  hand-cuffs  and  ankle- 
cuffs  knocked  off,  and,  for  convenience'  sake,  was  putting  them  upon  the  rascals  of 
the  schooner's  crew.  The  negroes  were,  most  of  them,  out  of  the  hold,  and  swarm- 
ing all  round  the  dirty  deck,  with  a  central  throng  surrounding  Vaughan  and 
addressing  him  in  every  dialect  and  patois  of  a  dialect,  from  the  Zulu  click  up  to 
the  Parisian  of  Beledeljereed. 

As  we  came  on  deck,  Vaughan  looked  down  from  a  hogshead,  on  which  he  had 
mounted  in  desperation,  and  said,  — 

"  For  God's  love,  is  there  anybody  who  can  make  these  wretches  understand 
something  ?  The  men  gave  them  rum,  and  that  did  not  quiet  them.  I  knocked 
that  big  fellow  down  twice,  and  that  did  not  soothe  him.  And  then  I  talked  Choc- 
taw  to  all  of  them  together  ;  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  they  understood  that  as  well  as 
they  understood  the  English." 

Nolan  said  he  could  speak  Portuguese,  and  one  or  two  fine-looking  Kroomen 
were  dragged  out  who,  as  it  had  been  found  already,  had  worked  for  the  Portuguese 
on  the  coast  at  Fernando  Po. 

"Tell  them  they  are  free,"  said  Vaughan;  "and  tell  them  that  these  rascals 
are  to  be  hanged  as  soon  as  we  can  get  rope  enough." 

Nolan  "  put  that  into  Spanish  "  ;  that  is,  he  explained  it  in  such  Portuguese 
as  the  Kroomen  could  understand,  and  they  in  turn  to  such  of  the  negroes  as  could 
understand  them.  Then  there  was  such  a  yell  of  delight,  clinching  of  fists,  leap- 
ing and  dancing,  kissing  of  Nolan's  feet,  and  a  general  rush  made  to  the  hogshead 
by  way  of  spontaneous  worship  of  Vaughan,  as  the  dcus  ex  machina  of  the 
occasion. 

"Tell  them,"  said  Vaughan,  well  pleased,  "that  I  will  take  them  all  to  Cape 
Palmas." 

This  did  not  answer  so  well.     Cape   Palmas  was  practically  as   far  from   the 


A     LESSON    IN    PATRIOTISM.  149 

homes  of  most  of  them  as  New  Orleans  or  Rio  Janeiro  was  ;  that  is,  they  would 
be  eternally  separated  from  home  there.  And  their  interpreters,  as  we  could  un- 
derstand, instantly  said,  "  Ah,  non  Palmas,"  and  began  to  propose  infinite  other 
expedients  in  most  voluble  language.  Vaughan  was  rather  disappointed  at  this 
result  of  his  liberality,  and  asked  Nolan  eagerly  what  they  said.  The  drops  stood 
on  poor  Nolan's  white  forehead,  as  he  hushed  the  men  down,  and  said,  "  He  says, 
'  Not  Palmas.'  He  says,  '  Take  us  home,  take  us  to  our  own  country,  take  us  to 
our  own  house,  take  us  to  our  own  pickaninnies  and  our  own  women.'  He  says  he 
has  an  old  father  and  mother  who  will  die  if  they  do  not  see  him.  And  this  one 
says  he  left  his  people  all  sick,  and  paddled  down  to  Fernando  to  beg  the  white  doc- 
tor to  come  and  help  them,  and  that  these  devils  caught  him  in  the  bay  just  in  sight 
of  home,  and  that  he  has  never  seen  anybody  from  home  since  then.  And  this  one 
says,"  choked  out  Nolan,  "that  he  has  not  heard  a  word  from  his  home  in  six 
months,  while  he  has  been  locked  up  in  an  infernal  barracoon." 

Vaughan  always  said  he  grew  gray  himself  while  Nolan  struggled  through  this 
interpretation.  I,  who  did  not  understand  anything  of  the  passion  involved  in  it, 
saw  that  the  very  elements  were  melting  with  fervent  heat,  and  that  something 
was  to  pay  somewhere.  Even  the  negroes  themselves  stopped  howling,  as  they 
saw  Nolan's  agony,  and  Vaughan's  almost  equal  agony  of  sympathy.  As  quick  as 
he  could  get  words,  he  said  :  "  Tell  them  yes,  yes,  yes  ;  tell  them  they  shall  go  to 
the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  if  they  will.  If  I  sail  the  schooner  through  the  Great 
White  Desert,  they  shall  go  home  !  " 

And  after  some  fashion  Nolan  said  so.  And  then  they  all  fell  to  kissing  him 
again,  and  wanted  to  rub  his  nose  with  theirs. 

o 

But  he  could  not  stand  it  long  ;  and  getting  Vaughan  to  say  he  might  go  back, 
he  beckoned  me  down  into  our  boat.  As  we  lay  back  in  the  stern-sheets  and  the 
men  gave  way,  he  said  to  me,  "  Youngster,  let  that  show  you  what  it  is  to  be  with- 
out a  family,  without  a  home,  and  without  a  country.  And  if  you  are  ever  tempted 
to  say  a  word  or  to  do  a  thing  that  shall  put  a  bar  between  you  and  your  family, 
your  home,  and  your  country,  pray  God  in  his  mercy  to  take  you  that  instant  home 
to  his  own  in  heaven.  Stick  by  your  family,  boy  ;  forget  you  have  a  self,  while 
you  do  everything  for  them.  Think  of  your  home,  boy  ;  write  and  send,  and  talk 
about  it.  Let  it  be  nearer  and  nearer  to  your  thought,  the  farther  you  have  to 
travel  from  it  ;  and  rush  back  to  it,  when  you  are  free,  as  that  poor  black  slave  is 
doing  now.  And  for  your  country,  boy,"  and  the  words  rattled  in  his  throat,  "  and 
for  that  flag,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  ship,  "  never  dream  a  dream  but  of  serving  her 
as  she  bids  you,  though  the  service  carry  you  through  a  thousand  hells.  No  mat- 
ter what  happens  to  you,  no  matter  who  flatters  you  or  who  abuses  you,  never  look 
at  another  flag,  never  let  a  night  pass  but  you  pray  God  to  bless  that  flag.  Re- 
member, boy,  that  behind  all  these  men  you  have  to  do  with,  behind  officers,  and 
government,  and  people  even,  there  is  the  Country  Herself,  your  Country,  and  that 
you  belong  to  Her  as  you  belong  to  your  own  mother.  Stand  by  Her,  boy,  as  you 
would  stand  by  your  mother,  if  those  devils  there  had  got  hold  of  her  to-day  !" 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 


'5° 


TO    HIS    DAUGHTER 


TO     HIS     DAUGHTER. 

So  you  were  very  sorry,  old  girl,  when  we  left  you  that  day  ?     You 
thought  you  would  not  care.     Hem  !   I  knew  better. 

And  so  the  poor  lassie  cried,  and  was  so  lonely  the  first  night,  and  would  have 
given  worlds  to  be  at  home  again  !  And  your  old  dad  was  not  a  bit  sorry  to  leave 
you,  not  he — cruel-hearted  man  that  he  is  !  Nor  was  your  mother,  wretched  old 
woman  that  she  is  !  And  yet  "  you  would  wonder  "  how  sorry  we  both  were,  and 
how  often  the  old  man  said  "  Poor  dear  darling  !  "  But  no  tear  filled  our  eye. 
Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  I'm  not.  And  the  old  father  said  :  "  I'm  not  afraid  of  my 
girl.  I'm  sure  she  will  prove  herself  good,  kind,  loving,  arid  obedient,  and  won't  be 
lazy,  but  do  her  work  like  a  heroine,  and  remember  all  her  old  dad  told  her  !  "  and 
her  mammy  said  the  same.  And  then  the  mammy  would  cry,  and  the  old  dad 
would  call  her  a  fool  (respectfully).  And  so  we  reached  London,  and  then  we  got 
your  letter,  which  made  us  very  happy,  and  then  the  old  man  said  :  "  Never  fear  ! 

she  will  do  right  well,  and  will  be  very  happy,  and  Miss will  like  her,  and  she  will 

like  Miss !  "  and  "We  shall  soon  meet  again  !  "  chimed  in  the  mammy.     "If 

it  be  God's  will  we  shall,"  said  the  dad,  "  and  won't  we  be  happy  !  " 

God  bless  you,  my  darling  !  May  you  love  your  own  Father  in  heaven  far  more 
than  you  love  your  own  father  on  earth,  and  I  know  how  truly  you  love  me,  and 
you  know  how  truly  I  love  you  ;  but  He  loves  you  infinitely  more  than  I  can  possi- 
bly do,  though  I  give  you  my  whole  heart. 

Will  you  write  a  line  to  the  old  man  ?  And,  remember,  he  won't  criticise  it, 
but  be  glad  to  hear  all  your  chatter. 

NORMAN  MACLEOD. 


ON    HISTORY.  151 


ON     HISTORY. 

THE  effect  of  historical  reading  is  analogous,  in  many  respects,  to  that  produced 
by  foreign  travel.  The  student,  like  the  tourist,  is  transported  into  a  new  state  of 
society.  He  sees  new  fashions.  He  hears  new  modes  of  expression.  His  mind  is 
enlarged  by  contemplating  the  wide  diversities  of  laws,  of  morals,  and  of  manners. 
But  men  may  travel  far,  and  return  with  minds  as  contracted  as  if  they  had  never 
stirred  from  their  own  market-town.  In  the  same  manner,  men  may  know  the 
dates  of  many  battles,  and  the  genealogies  of  many  royal  houses,  and  yet  be  no 
wiser.  Most  people  look  at  past  times,  as  princes  look  at  foreign  countries.  More 
than  one  illustrious  stranger  has  landed  on  our  island  amidst  the  shouts  of  a  mob, 
has  dined  with  the  king,  has  hunted  with  the  master  of  the  stag-hounds,  has  seen 
the  Guards  reviewed,  and  a  knight  of  the  garter  installed  ;  has  cantered  along  Regent 
Street  ;  has  visited  St.  Paul's,  and  noted  down  its  dimensions,  and  has  then  de- 
parted, thinking  he  has  seen  England.  He  has,  in  fact,  seen  a  few  public  buildings, 
public  men,  and  public  ceremonies.  But  of  the  vast  and  complex  system  of  society, 
of  the  fine  shades  of  national  character,  of  the  practical  operation  of  government 
and  laws,  he  knows  nothing.  He  who  would  understand  these  things  rightly,  must 
not  confine  his  observations  to  palaces  and  solemn  days.  He  must  see  ordi- 
nary men  as  they  appear  in  their  ordinary  business  and  in  their  ordinary  pleasures. 
He  must  mingle  in  the  crowds  of  the  exchange  and  the  coffee-house.  He  must 
obtain  admittance  to  the  convivial  table  and  the  domestic  hearth.  He  must  bear 
with  vulgar  expressions.  He  must  not  shrink  from  exploring  even  the  retreats  of 
misery.  He  who  wishes  to  understand  the  condition  of  mankind  in  former  ages, 
must  proceed  on  the  same  principle.  If  he  attends  only  to  public  transactions,  to 
wars,  congresses,  and  debates,  his  studies  will  be  as  unprofitable  as  the  travels  of 
those  imperial,  royal,  and  serene  sovereigns,  who  form  their  judgment  of  our  island 
from  having  gone  in  state  to  a  few  fine  sights,  and  from  having  held  formal  con- 
ference with  a  few  great  officers. 

The  perfect  historian  is  he  in  whose  work  the  character  and  spirit  of  an  age 
are  exhibited  in  miniature.  He  relates  no  fact,  he  attributes  no  expression  to  his 
characters,  which  is  not  authenticated  by  sufficient  testimony.  But  by  judicious 
selection,  rejection,  and  arrangement,  he  gives  to  truth  those  attractions  which 
have  been  usurped  by  fiction.  In  his  narrative  a  due  subordination  is  observed  ; 
some  transactions  are  prominent,  others  retire.  But  the  scale  on  which  he  repre- 
sents them  is  increased  or  diminished,  not  according  to  the  dignity  of  the  persons 
concerned  in  them,  but  according  to  the  degree  in  which  they  elucidate  the  condi- 
tion of  society  and  the  nature  of  man.  He  shows  us  the  court,  the  camp,  and  the 
senate.  But  he  shows  us  also  the  nation.  He  considers  no  anecdote,  no  peculi- 
arity of  manner,  no  familiar  saying,  as  too  insignificant  for  his  notice,  which  is  not 
too  insignificant  to  illustrate  the  operation  of  laws,  of  religion,  and  of  education, 
and  to  mark  the  progress  of  the  human  mind.  Men  will  not  merely  be  described, 


I52  DEMOCRACY. 

but  will  be  made  intimately  known  to  us.  The  changes  of  manners  will  be  indi- 
cated, not  merely  by  a  few  general  phrases,  or  a  few  extracts  from  statistical  docu- 
ments, but  by  appropriate  images  presented  in  every  line. 

If  a  man,  such  as  we  are  supposing,  should  write  the  history  of  England,  he 
would  assuredly  not  omit  the  battles,  the  sieges,  the  negotiations,  the  seditions,  the 
ministerial  changes.  But  with  these  he  would  intersperse  the  details  which  are 
the  charm  of  historical  romances.  At  Lincoln  Cathedral  there  is  a  beautiful 
painted  window,  which  was  made  by  an  apprentice  out  of  the  pieces  of  glass  which 
had  been  rejected  by  his  master.  It  is  so  far  superior  to  every  other  in  the  church, 
that,  according  to  the  tradition,  the  vanquished  artist  killed  himself  from  mortifica- 
tion. Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the  same  manner,  has  used  those  fragments  of  truth 
which  historians  have  scornfully  thrown  behind  them,  in  a  manner  which  may  well 
excite  their  envy.  He  has  consrtucted  out  of  their  gleaning  works  which,  even 
considered  as  histories,  are  scarcely  less  valuable  than  theirs.  But  a  truly  great 
historian  would  reclaim  those  materials  which  the  novelist  has  appropriated.  The 
history  of  the  government,  and  the  history  of  the  people,  would  be  exhibited  in  that 
mode  in  which  alone  they  can  be  exhibited  justly,  in  inseparable  conjunction  and 
intermixture.  We  should  not  then  have  to  look  for  the  wars  and  votes  of  the 
Puritans  in  Clarendon,  and  for  their  phraseology  in  "Old  Mortality"  ;  for  one  half 
of  King  James  in  Hume,  and  for  the  other  half  in  the  "  Fortunes  of  Nigel." 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY. 


DEMOCRACY. 

HE  must  have  been  a  born  leader  or  misleader  of  men,  or  must  have  been  sent 
into  the  world  unfurnished  with  that  modulating  and  restraining  balance-wheel 
which  we  call  a  sense  of  humor,  who,  in  old  age,  has  as  strong  a  confidence  in  his 
opinions  and  in  the  necessity  of  bringing  the  universe  into  conformity  with  them 
as  he  had  in  youth.  In  a  world  the  very  condition  of  whose  being  is  that  it  should 
be  in  perpetual  flux,  where  all  seems  mirage,  and  the  one  aoiding  thing  is  the 
effort  to  distinguish  realities  from  appearances,  the  elderly  man  must  be  indeed  of 
a  singularly  tough  and  valid  fiber  who  is  certain  that  he  has  any  clarified  residuum 
of  experience,  any  assured  verdict  of  reflection,  that  deserves  to  be  called  an 
opinion,  or  who,  even  if  he  had,  feels  that  he  is  justified  in  holding  mankind  by  the 
button  while  he  is  expounding  it.  And  in  a  world  of  daily — nay,  almost  hourly  — 
journalism,  where  every  clever  man,  every  man  who  'hinks  himself  clever,  or  whom 
anybody  else  thinks  clever,  is  called  upon  to  deliver  his  judgment  point-blank  and 
at  the  word  of  command  on  every  conceivable  subject  of  human  thought,  or,  on 
what  sometimes  seems  to  him  very  much  the  same  thing,  on  every  inconceivable 
display  of  human  want  of  thought,  there  is  such  a  spendthrift  waste  of  all  those 


SELFISHNESS    VERSUS   NOBILITY.  153 

commonplaces  which  furnish  the  permitted  staple  of  public  discourse  that  there  is 
little  chance  of  beguiling  a  new  tune  out  of  the  one-stringed  instrument  on  which 
we  have  been  thrumming  so  long.  In  this  desperate  necessity  one  is  often  tempted 
to  think  that,  if  all  the  words  of  the  dictionary  were  tumbled  down  in  a  heap  and 
then  all  those  fortuitous  juxtapositions  and  combinations  that  made  tolerable 
sense  were  picked  out  and  pieced  together,  we  might  find  among  them  some 
poignant  suggestions  toward  novelty  of  thought  or  expression.  But,  alas  !  it  is 
only  the  great  poets  who  seem  to  have  this  unsolicited  profusion  of  unexpected 
and  incalculable  phrase,  this  infinite  variety  of  topic.  For  everybody  else  every- 
thing has  been  said  before,  and  said  over  again  after. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


SELFISHNESS    VERSUS    NOBILITY. 

Now,  that  which  especially  distinguishes  a  high  order  of  man  from  a  low  order 
of  man  —  that  which  constitutes  human  goodness,  human  greatness,  human  noble- 
ness —  is  surely  not  the  degree  of  enlightenment  with  which  men  pursue  their  own 
advantage  ;  but  it  is  self-forgetfulness,  it  is  self-sacrifice  ;  it  is  the  disregard  of 
personal  pleasure,  personal  indulgence,  personal  advantages  remote  or  present, 
because  some  other  line  of  conduct  is  more  right. 

We  are  sometimes  told  that  this  is  but  another  way  of  expressing  the  same 
thing ;  that,  when  a  man  prefers  doing  what  is  right,  it  is  only  because  to  do  right 
gives  him  a  higher  satisfaction.  It  appears  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  to  be  a  differ- 
ence in  the  very  heart  and  nature  of  things.  The  martyr  goes  to  the  stake,  the 
patriot  to  the  scaffold,  not  with  a  view  to  any  future  reward,  to  themselves,  but  be- 
cause it  is  a  glory  to  fling  away  their  lives  for  truth  and  freedom.  And  so  through 
all  the  phases  of  existence,  to  the  smallest  details  of  common  life,  the  beautiful 
character  is  the  unselfish  character.  Those  whom  we  most  love  and  admire  are 
those  to  whom  the  thought  of  self  seems  never  to  occur  ;  who  do  simply  and  with 
no  ulterior  aim  —  with  no  thought  whether  it  v/ill  be  pleasant  to  themselves  or  un- 
pleasant —  that  which  is  good  and  right  and  generous. 

Is  this  still  selfishness,  only  more  enlightened  ?  I  do  not  think  so.  The  essence 
of  true  nobility  is  neglect  of  self.  Let  the  thought  of  self  pass  in,  and  the  beauty  of 
a  great  action  is  gone,  like  the  bloom  from  a  soiled  flower.  Surely  it  is  a  paradox 


154  SELFISHNESS     VERSUS    NOBILITY. 

to  speak  of  the  self-interest  of  a  martyr  who  dies  for  a  cause,  the  triumph  of 
which  he  will  never  enjoy  ;  and  the  greatest  of  that  great  company  in  all  ages 
would  have  done  what  they  did,  had  their  personal  prospects  closed  with  the  grave. 
Nay,  there  have  been  those  so  zealous  for  some  glorious  principle  as  to  wish  them- 
selves blotted  out  of  the  book  of  Heaven  if  the  cause  of  Heaven  could  succeed. 

And  out  of  this  mysterious  quality,  whatever  it  be,  arise  the  higher  relations  of 
human  life,  the  higher  modes  of  human  obligation.  Kant,  the  philosopher,  used  to 
say  that  there  were  two  things  which  overwhelmed  him  with  awe  as  he  thought  of 
them.  One  was  the  star-sown  deep  of  space,  without  limit  and  without  end  ;  the 
other  was,  right  and  wrong.  Right,  the  sacrifice  of  self  to  good  ;  wrong,  the  sacrifice 
of  good  to  self  —  not  graduated  objects  of  desire,  to  which  we  are  determined  by  the 
degrees  of  our  knowledge,  but  wide  asunder  as  pole  and  pole,  as  light  and  dark- 
ness :  one  the  object  of  infinite  love  ;  the  other,  the  object  of  infinite  detestation 
and  scorn.  It  is  in  this  marvellous  power  in  men  to  do  wrong  (it  is  an  old  story, 
but  none  the  less  true  for  that),  —  it  is  in  this  power  to  do  wrong  —  wrong  or  right, 
as  it  lies  somehow  with  ourselves  to  choose  —  that  the  impossibility  stands  of  form- 
ing scientific  calculations  of  what  men  will  do  before  the  fact,  or  scientific  explana- 
tions of  what  they  have  done  after  the  fact.  If  men  were  consistently  selfish,  you 
might  analyze  their  motives  ;  if  they  were  consistently  noble,  they  would  express 
in  their  conduct  the  laws  of  the  highest  perfection.  But  so  long  as  two  natures 
are  mixed  together,  and  the  strange  creature  which  results  from  the  combination 
is  now  under  one  influence  and  now  under  another,  so  long  you  will  make  nothing 
of  him  except  from  the  old-fashioned  moral  —  or,  if  you  please,  imaginative  —  point 
of  view. 

Even  the  laws  of  political  economy  itself  cease  to  guide  us  when  they  touch 
moral  government.  So  long  as  labor  is  a  chattel  to  be  bought  and  sold,  so  long,  like 
other  commodities,  it  follows  the  condition  of  supply  and  demand.  But  if,  for 
his  misfortune,  an  employer  considers  that  he  stands  in  human  relations  toward  his 
workmen  ;  if  he  believes,  rightly  or  wrongly,  that  he  is  responsible  for  them  ;  that 
in  return  for  their  labor  he  is  bound  to  see  that  their  children  are  decently  taught, 
and  they  and  their  families  decently  fed  and  clothed  and  lodged  ;  that  he  ought  to 
care  for  them  in  sickness  and  in  old  age,  —  then  political  economy  will  no  longer 
direct  him,  and  the  relations  between  himself  and  his  dependents  will  have  to  be 
arranged  on  quite  other  principles. 

JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE. 


HIEKONYMUS    AND     TIDDLEKINS.  155 


HIERONYMUS     AND     TIDDLEKINS. 

IT  seemed  to  Hieronymus  that  the  climax  of  his  imposi- 
tions had  come,  when  he  was  forced  to  stay  at  home  and  mind 
the  baby,  while  his  mother  and  the  rest  of  them  trotted  off, 
gay  as  larks,  to  see  a  man  hanged. 

It  was  a  hot  afternoon,  and  the  unwilling  nurse  suffered. 
The  baby  wouldn't  go  to  sleep.  He  put  it  on  the  bed  —  a 
feather-bed  —  and  why  it  didn't  drop  off  to  sleep,  as  a  proper 

baby  should,  was  more  than  the  tired  soul  of  Hieronymus  could  tell.  He  did  every 
thing  to  sooth  Tiddlekins.  (The  infant  had  not  been  named  as  yet,  and  by  way  of 
affection  they  addressed  it  as  Tiddlekins.)  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  wave  the  flies 
away  from  it  with  a  mulberry  branch  for  the  space  of  five  or  ten  minutes.  But  as  it 
still  fretted  and  tossed,  he  let  it  severely  alone,  and  the  flies  settled  on  the  little 
black  thing  as  if  it  had  been  a  licorice  stick. 

After  a  while  Tiddlekins  grew  aggressive,  and  began  to  yell.  Hieronymus, 
who  had  almost  found  consolation  in  the  contemplation  of  a  bloody  picture  pasted 
on  the  wall,  cut  from  the  weekly  paper  of  a  wicked  city,  was  deprived  even  of  this 
solace.  He  picked  up  "de  miserbul  little  screech-owl,"  as  he  called  it  in  his  wrath. 
He  trotted  it.  He  sang  to  it  the  soothing  ditty  of  — 

"  'Tain't  never  gwine  to  rain  no  mo' ; 
Sun  shines  down  on  rich  and  po'." 

But  all  was  vain.  Finally,  in  despair,  he  undressed  Tiddlekins.  He  had  heard 
his  mother  say  :  "  Of'en  and  of'en  when  a  chile  is  a-screamin'  its  breff  away, 
'tain't  nothin'  ails  it  'cep'n  pins." 

But  there  were  no  pins.  Plenty  of  strings  and  hard  knots  ;  but  not  a  pin  to 
account  for  the  antics  of  the  unhappy  Tiddlekins. 

How  it  did  scream  !  It  lay  on  the  stiffly  braced  knees  of  Hieronymus,  and 
puckered  up  its  face  so  tightly  that  it  looked  as  if  it  had  come  fresh  from  a  wrinkle 
mould.  There  were  no  tears,  but  sharp  regular  yells,  and  rollings  of  its  head,  and 
a  distracting  monotony  in  its  performances. 

"  Dis  here  chile  looks's  if  it's  got  de  measles,"  muttered  Hi,  gazing  on  the 
squirming  atom  with  calm  eyes  of  despair.  Then,  running  his  fingers  over  the 
neck  and  breast  of  the  small  Tiddlekins,  he  cried,  with  the  air  of  one  who  makes  a 
discovery,  "  It's  got  de  heat  !  Dat's  what  ails  Tiddlekins  !  " 

There  was  really  a  little  breaking  out  on  the  child's  body  that  might  account 
for  his  restlessness  and  squalls.  And  it  was  such  a  hot  day !  Perspiration  streamed 
down  Hi's  back,  while  his  head  was  dry.  There  was  not  a  quiver  in  the  tree-leaves, 
and  the  silver  poplars  showed  only  their  leaden  side.  The  sunflowers  were  drop- 
ping their  big  heads ;  the  flies  seemed  to  stick  to  the  window-panes,  and  were  too 
languid  to  crawl. 


'5* 


HIERONYMUS    AND     TIDDLEKINS. 


Hieronymus  had  in  him  the  materials  of  which  philosophers  are  made.  He 
said  to  himself:  "  'Tain't  nothin'  but  heat  dat's  de  matter  wid  dis  baby;  so  uf 
cose  he  ought  ter  be  cooled  off." 

But  how  to  cool  him  off  —  that  was  the  great  question.  Hi  knitted  his  dark 
brows  and  thought  intently. 

It  happened  that  the  chiefest  treasure  of  the  Pop  estate  was  a  deep  old  well 
that  in  the  hottest  days  yielded  water  as  refreshing  as  iced  champagne.  The 

neighbors  all  made  a  convenience 
of  the  Pop  well.  And  half  way 
down  its  long  cool  hollow  hung, 
pretty  much  all  of  the  time,  milk 
cans,  butter  pats,  fresh  meats  — 
all  things  that  needed  to  be  kept 
cool  in  summer  days. 

He  looked  at  the  hot,  squirm- 
ing, wretched  black  baby  on  his 
lap  ;  then  he  looked  at  the  well ; 
and,  simple,  straightforward  lad 
that  he  was,  he  put  this  and  that 
together. 

"  If  I  was  ter  hang  Tiddlekins 
down  de  well,"  he  reflected, 
"  'twouldn't  be  mo'  dan  three 
jumps  of  a  flea  befo'  he's  as  cool 
as  Christmas." 

With  this  quick-witted  youth 

to  think  was  to  act.  Before  many  minutes  he  had  stuffed  poor  little  Tiddlekins 
into  the  well  bucket,  though  it  must  be  mentioned  to  his  credit  that  he  tied  the 
baby  securely  in  with  his  own  suspenders. 

Warmed  up  with  his  exertions,  content  in  this  good  riddance  of  such  bad  rub- 
bish as  Tiddlekins,  Hieronymus  reposed  himself  on  the  feather-bed,  and  dropped 
off  into  a  sweet  slumber.     From  this  he  was  aroused  by  the  voice  of  a  small  boy. 
"  Hello,  Hi !     I  say,  Hi  Pop  !  whar  is  yer  ?  " 
"  Here  I  is  ! "  cried  Hi,  starting  up.     "What  you  want  ?" 
Little  Jim  Rogers  stood  in  the  door-way. 

"  Towzer's  dog,"  he  said,  in  great  excitement,  "  and  daddy's  bull-pup  is  gwine 
to  have  a  fight  dis  evenin'.  Come  on  quick,  if  yer  wants  ter  see  de  fun." 

Up  jumped  Hi,  and  the  two  boys  were  off  like  a  flash.  Not  one  thought  to 
Tiddlekins  in  tJie  well  bucket. 

In  due  time  the  Pop  family  got  home,  and  Mother  Pop,  fanning  herself,  was 
indulging  in  the  moral  reflections  suitable  to  the  occasion,  when  she  checked 
herself  suddenly,  exclaiming,  "  But,  land  o'  Jerusalem  !  whar's  'Onymus  an'  de 
baby?" 

"  I  witnessed  Hieronymus,"  said  the  elegant  Savannah,  "  as  I  wandered  from 


THE    QUICK-WITTED    YOUTH. 


THE    POP    FAMILY. 


HIERONYMUS    AND     TIDDLEKINS. 


school.     He  was  with  a  multitude  of  boys,  who  cheered,  without  a  sign  of  disap- 
^ration,  two  canine  beasts,  that  tore  each  other  in  deadly  feud." 

"  Yer  don't  mean  to  say,  Sissy,  dat  'Onymus  Pop  is  gone  ter  a  clog-fight  ?" 

"  Such  are  my  meaning,"  said  Sissy,  with  dignity 

"  Den  whar's  de  baby  ? " 

For  answer,  a  long  low  wail  smote  upon  their  ears,  as  Savannah  would  have  said. 

"  Fan  me  !  "  cried  Mother  Pop.     "  Dat's  Tiddlekins's  voice." 

"  Never  min'  about  fannin',  mammy,"  cried  Weekly,  Savannah's  twin,  a  youth 
of  fifteen,  who  could  read,  and  was  much  addicted  to  gory  tales  of  thunder  and 
blood  ;  "  let's  fin'  de  baby.  P'r'aps  he's  been  murdered  by  dat  ruffian  Hi,  an'  dat's 
his  ghos'  dat  we  hears  a-callin'." 

A  search  was  instituted  —  under  the  bed,  in  the  bed,  in  the  wash-tub,  and  the 
soup-kettle  ;  behind  the  wood-pile,  and  in  -the  pea-vines  ;  up  the  chimney,  and  in 
the  ash-hopper ;  but  all  in  vain.  No  Tiddlekins  appeared,  though  still  they  heard 
him  cry. 

"Shade  of  Ole  Hickory!"  cried  the  father  Pop,  "  whar,  whar  is  dat  chile?" 
Then,  with  a  sudden  lighting  of  the  eye.  "  Unchain  de  dog,"  said  he  ;  "  he'll 
smell  him  out." 

There  was  a  superannuated  bloodhound  pertaining  to  the  Pop  menage  that  they 
kept  tied  up  all  day  under  a  delu- 
sion that  he  was  fierce.  They 
unchained  this  wild  animal,  and 
with  many  kicks  endeavored 
to  goad  his  nostrils  to  their 
duty. 

It  happened  that  a  piece  of 
fresh  pork  hung  in  the  well,  and 
Lord  Percy  —  so  was  the  dog 
called  —  was  hungry.  So  he  hur- 
ried with  vivacity  toward  the 
fresh  pork. 

"  De  well !  "  shrieked  Mother 
Pop,  tumbling  down  all  in  a  heap, 
and  looking  somehow  like  Tur- 
ner's "  Slave-Ship,"  as  one 
stumpy  leg  protruded  from  the 
wreck  of  red  flannel  and  ruffled 
petticoats. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  said 
Sissy,  with  a  helpless  squeak. 

"  Why,  git  him  out,"  said  Mr.  Pop,  who  was  the  practical  one  of  the  family. 

He  began  to  draw  up  the  well  bucket,  aided  by  Weekly,  who  whispered  darkly: 
"  Dar'll  be  anudder  hangin'  in  town  befo'  long  and  Hi  wont  miss  dat  hangin ." 

Soon  appeared  a  little  woolly  head,  then  half  a  black  body,  the  rest  of  him  be- 


A    NEIGHBOR  S    BOY. 


160  HIERONYMUS    AND     TIDDLEKINS. 

ing  securely  wedged  in  the  well  bucket.     He  looked  like  a  jack-in-the-box.     But  he 
was  cool,  Tiddlekins  was,  no  doubt  of  that. 

Mother  Pop  revived  at  sight  of  her  offspring,  still  living,  and  feebly  sucking  his 
thumb. 

"  Ef  we  had  a  whiskey  bath  ter  put  him  in  !  "  she  cried. 

Into  the  house  flew  Father  Pop,  seized  the  quart  cup,  and  was  over  to  the 
white  house  on  the  hill  in  the  wink  of  a  cat's  eye. 

"  He  stammered  forth  his  piteous  tale,"  said  Savannah,  telling  the  story  the 
next  day  to  her  schoolmates  ;  "and  Judge  Chambers  himself  filled  his  cup  with  the 
best  of  Bourbon,  and  Miss  Clara  came  over  to  see  us  resusirate  the  infant." 

Mother  Pop  bad  Tiddlekins  wrapped  in  hot  flannel  when  he  got  back;  and  with 
a  never-to-be-sufficiently-admired  economy  Mr.  Pop  moistened  a  rag  with  "the  best 
of  Bourbon,"  and  said  to  his  wife,  "  Jes  rub  him  awhile,  Cynthy,  an'  see  if  dat 
won't  bring  him  roun'." 

As  she  rubbed,  he  absent-mindedly  raised  the  quart  cup  to  his  lips,  and  with 
three  deep  and  grateful  gulps  the  whiskey  bath  went  to  refresh  the  inner  man  of 
Tiddlekins's  papa. 

Then  who  so  valorous  and  so  affectionate  as  he  ?  Dire  were  his  threats  against 
Hieronymus,  deep  his  lamentations  over  his  child. 

"  My  po'  little  lammie  !  "  he  sobbed.  "  Work  away,  Cynthy.  Dat  chile  mus' 
be  saved,  even  if  I  should  have  ter  go  over  ter  de  judge's  for  anudder  quart  o' 
whiskey.  Nuthin'  shall  be  spared  to  save  that  preciousest  kid  o'  my  ole  age." 

Miss  Clara  did  not  encourage  his  self-sacrificing  proposal  ;  but  for  all  that,  it 
was  not  long  before  Tiddlekins  grew  warm  and  lively,  and  winked  at  his  father  — 
so  that  good  old  man  declared  —  as  he  lay  on  his  back,  placidly  sucking  a  pig's 
tail.  Savannah  had  roasted  it  in  the  ashes,  and  it  had  been  cut  from  the  piece  of 
pork  that  had  shared  the  well  with  Tiddlekins.  The  pork  belonged  to  a  neighbor, 
by-the-way ;  but  at  such  a  time  the  Pop  family  felt  that  they  might  dispense  with 
the  vain  and  useless  ceremony  of  asking  for  it. 

The  excitement  was  over,  the  baby  asleep,  Miss  Clara  gone,  and  the  sun  well 
on  its  way  to  China,  when  a  small  figure  was  seen  hovering  about  the  gate.  It  had 
a  limp  air  of  dejection,  and  seemed  to  feel  some  delicacy  about  coming  further. 

"  The  miscreant  is  got  back,"  remarked  Savannah. 

"Hieronymus,"  calls  Mrs.  Pop,  "you  may  thank  yo'  heavenly  stars  dat  you 
ain't  a  murderer  dis  summer  day  "  — 

"  A-waitin'  ter  be  hung  nex'  wild-grape-time,"  finished  Weekly,  pleasantly. 

Mr.  Pop  said  nothing.  But  he  reached  down  from  the  mantel-shelf  a  long  thin 
something,  shaped  like  a  snake,  and  quivered  it  in  the  air. 

Then  he  walked  out  to  Hi,  and  taking  him  by  the  left  ear,  led  him  to  the 
wood-pile. 

And  here  —  But  I  draw  a  veil. 

KATHERINE  SHERWOOD  BONNER  MCDOWELL. 


OBEDIENCE     TO    LAW.—  WAR     THE    DESTROYER.        161 


OBEDIENCE     TO     LAW. 

A  LITTLE  consideration  of  what  takes  place  around  us  every  day,  would  show 
us  that  a  higher  law  than  that  of  our  will  regulates  events  ;  that  our  painful  labors 
are  unnecessary  and  fruitless,  that  only  in  our  easy,  simple,  spontaneous  action  are 
we  strong,  and  by  contenting  ourselves  with  obedience  we  become  divine.  Belief 
and  love, — a  believing  love  will  relieve  us  of  a  vast  load  of  care.  O  my  brothers, 
God  exists.  There  is  a  soul  at  the  center  of  nature  and  over  the  will  of  every  man, 
so  that  none  of  us  can  wrong  the  universe.  It  has  so  infused  its  strong  enchant- 
ment into  nature  that  we  prosper  when  we  accept  its  advice,  and  when  we  struggle 
to  wound  its  creatures  our  hands  are  glued  to  our  sides,  or  they  beat  our  own 
breasts.  The  whole  course  of  things  goes  to  teach  us  faith.  We  need  only  obey. 
There  is  guidance  for  each  of  us,  and  by  lowly  listening  we  shall  hear  the  right 
word.  Why  need  you  choose  so  painfully  your  place  and  occupation  and  associates 
and  mode  of  action  and  of  entertainment  ?  Certainly  there  is  a  possible  right  for 
you  that  precludes  the  need  of  balance  and  wilful  election.  For  you  there  is  a 
reality,  a  fit  place  and  congenial  duties.  Place  yourself  in  the  middle  of  the  stream 
of  power  and  wisdom  which  animates  all  whom  it  floats,  and  you  are  without  effort 
impelled  to  truth,  to  right,  and  a  perfect  contentment.  Then  you  put  all  gain- 
sayers  in  the  wrong.  Then  you  are  the  world,  the  measure  of  right,  of  truth,  of 
beauty.  If  we  would  not  be  marplots  with  our  miserable  interferences,  the  work, 
the  society,  letters,  arts,  science,  religion  of  men  would  go  on  far  better  than  now, 
and  the  heaven  predicted  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and  still  predicted  from 
the  bottom  of  the  heart,  would  organize  itself,  as  do  now  the  rose  and  the  air  and 
the  sun. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


WAR     THE     DESTROYER. 

WE  must  keep  Bonaparte  for  some  time  longer  at  war,  as  a  state  of  proba- 
tion. Gracious  God,  sir  !  is  war  a  state  of  probation  ?  Is  peace  a  rash  system  ? 
Is  it  dangerous  for  nations  to  live  in  amity  with  each  other  ?  Are  your  vigilance, 
your  policy,  your  common  powers  of  observation,  to  be  extinguished  by  putting 
an  end  to  the  horrors  of  war  ?  Cannot  this  state  of  probation  be  as  well 
undergone  without  adding  to  the  catalogue  of  human  sufferings  ?  "  But  we 
must  pause!"  What!  must  the  bowels  of  Great  Britain  be  torn  out  —  her  best 
blood  be  spilled — her  treasure  wasted  —  that  you  may  make  an  experiment? 


162  THE     GIFT    OF    GOLD. 

Put  yourselves,  oh  !  that  you  would  put  yourselves  in  the  field  of  battle,  and 
learn  to  judge  of  the  sort  of  horrors  that  you  excite  !  In  former  wars  a  man 
might,  at  least,  have  some  feeling,  some  interest,  that  served  to  balance  in  his 
mind  the  impressions  which  a  scene  of  carnage  and  of  death  must  inflict.  If  a 
man  had  been  present  at  the  battle  of  Blenheim,  for  instance,  and  had  inquired  the 
motive  of  the  battle,  there  was  not  a  soldier  engaged  who  could  not  have  satisfied 
his  curiosity,  and  even,  perhaps,  allayed  his  feelings.  They  were  fighting,  they 
knew,  to  repress  the  uncontrolled  ambition  of  the  Grand  Monarch.  But  if  a  man 
were  present  now  at  a  field  of  slaughter,  and  were  to  inquire  for  what  they  were 
fighting  —  "Fighting!"  would  be  the  answer;  "they  are  not  fighting;  they  are 
pausing."  "  Why  is  that  man  expiring  ?  Why  is  that  other  writhing  with  agony  ? 
What  means  this  implacable  fury?  "  The  answer  must  be  :  "  You  are  quite  wrong, 
sir;  you  deceive  yourself  —  they  are  not  fighting — do  not  disturb  them — they 
are  merely  pausing  !  This  man  is  not  expiring  with  agony  —  that  man  is  not  dead 
—  he  is  only  pausing  !  Lord  help  you,  sir  !  they  are  not  angry  with  one  another  ; 
they  have  now  no  cause  of  quarrel ;  but  their  country  thinks  that  there  should  be  a 
pause.  All  that  you  see,sir,  is  nothinglike  fighting — there  is  no  harm,  nor  cruelty, 
nor  bloodshed  in  it  whatever  ;  it  is  nothing  more  than  a  political  pause  !  It  is 
merely  to  try  an  experiment  —  to  see  whether  Bonaparte  will  not  behave  himself 
better  than  heretofore  ;  and  in  the  meantime  we  have  agreed  to  a  pause,  in  pure 
friendship ! "  And  is  this  the  way,  sir,  that  you  are  to  show  yourselves  the  advo- 
cates of  order  ?  You  take  up  a  system  calculated  to  uncivilize  the  world  —  to  de- 
stroy order  —  to  trample  on  religion — to  stifle  in  the  heart,  not  merely  the  gener- 
osity of  noble  sentiment,  but  the  affections  of  social  nature ;  and  in  the  prosecution 
of  this  system,  you  spread  terror  and  devastation  all  around  you. 

CHARLES  JAMES  Fox. 


THE     GIFT     OF     GOLD. 

SHE  had  set  out  at  an  early  hour,  but  had  lingered  on  the  road,  inclined  by  her 
indolence  to  believe  that  if  she  waited  under  a  warm  shed  the  snow  would  cease  to 
fall.  She  had  waited  longer  than  she  knew,  and  now  that  she  found  herself  belated 
in  the  snow-hidden  ruggedness  of  the  long  lanes,  even  the  animation  of  a  vindictive 
purpose  could  not  keep  her  spirit  from  failing.  It  was  seven  o'clock,  and  by  this 
time  she  was  not  very  far  from  Raveloe,  but  she  was  not  familiar  enough  with 
those  monotonous  lanes  to  know  how  near  she  was  to  her  journey's  end.  She 
needed  comfort,  and  she  knew  but  one  comforter  —  the  familiar  demon  in  her 
bosom  ;  but  she  hesitated  a  moment,  after  drawing  out  the  black  remnant,  before 
she  raised  it  to  her  lips.  In  that  moment  the  mother's  love  pleaded  for  painful 


THE     GIFT    OF    GOLD.  165 

consciousness  rather  than  oblivion  —  pleaded  to  be  left  in  aching  weariness,  rather 
than  to  have  the  encircling  arms  benumbed  so  that  they  could  not  feel  the  dear 
burden.  In  another  moment  Molly  had  flung  something  away,  but  it  was  not  the 
black  remnant — it  was  an  empty  vial.  And  she  walked  on  again  under  the  break- 
ing cloud,  from  which  there  came  now  and  then  the  light  of  a  quickly-veiled  star, 
for  a  freezing  wind  had  sprung  up  since  the  snowing  had  ceased.  But  she  walked 
always  more  and  more  drowsily,  and  clutched  more  and  more  automatically  the 
sleeping  child  at  her  bosom. 

Slowly  the  demon  was  working  his  will,  and  cold  and  weariness  were  his  helpers. 
Soon  she  felt  nothing  but  a  supreme  immediate  longing  that  curtained  off  all 
futurity  —  the  longing  to  lie  down  and  sleep.  She  had  arrived  at  a  spot  where  her 
footsteps  were  no  longer  checked  by  a  hedgerow,  and  she  had  wandered  vaguely, 
unable  to  distinguish  any  objects,  notwithstanding  the  wide  whiteness  around  her, 
and  the  growing  starlight.  She  sank  down  against  a  straggling  furze  bush,  an  easy 
pillow  enough ;  and  the  bed  of  snow,  too,  was  soft.  She  did  not  feel  that  the  bed 
was  cold,  and  did  not  heed  whether  the  child  would  wake  and  cry  for  her.  But 
her  arms  had  not  yet  relaxed  their  instinctive  clutch  ;  and  the  little  one  slumbered 
on  as  gently  as  if  it  had  been  rocked  in  a  lace-trimmed  cradle. 

But  the  complete  torpor  came  at  last :  the  fingers  lost  their  tension,  the  arms 
unbent ;  then  the  little  head  fell  away  from  the  bosom,  and  the  blue  eyes  opened 
wide  on  the  cold  starlight.  At  first  there  was  a  little  peevish  cry  of  "  mammy," 
and  an  effort  to  regain  the  pillowing  arm  and  bosom  ;  but  mammy's  ear  was  deaf, 
and  the  pillow  seemed  to  be  slipping  away  backward.  Suddenly,  as  the  child  rolled 
downward  on  its  mother's  knees,  all  wet  with  snow,  its  eyes  were  caught  by  a 
bright  glancing  light  on  the  white  ground,  and,  with  the  ready  transition  of  infancy, 
it  was  immediately  absorbed  in  watching  the  bright  living  thing  running  towards 
it,  yet  never  arriving.  That  bright  living  thing  must  be  caught  ;  and  in  an  instant 
the  child  had  slipped  on  all  fours,  and  held  out  one  little  hand  to  catch  the  gleam. 
But  the  gleam  would  not  be  caught  in  that  way,  and  now  the  head  was  held  up  to 
see  where  the  cunning  gleam  came  from.  It  came  from  a  very  bright  place ;  and 
the  little  one,  rising  on  its  legs,  toddled  through  the  snow,  the  old  grimy  shawl  in 
which  it  was  wrapped  trailing  behind  it,  and  the  queer  little  bonnet  dangling  at 
its  back  —  toddled  on  to  the  open  door  of  Silas  Marner's  cottage,  and  right  up 
to  the  warm  hearth,  where  there  was  a  bright  fire  of  logs  and  sticks,  which  had 
thoroughly  warmed  the  old  sack  (Silas's  great-coat)  spread  out  on  the  bricks  to  dry. 
The  little  one,  accustomed  to  be  left  to  itself  for  long  hours  without  notice  from 
its  mother,  squatted  down  on  the  sack,  and  spread  its  tiny  hands  towards  the  blaze, 
in  perfect  contentment,  gurgling  and  making  many  inarticulate  communications 
to  the  cheerful  fire,  like  a  new-hatched  gosling  beginning  to  find  itself  comfort- 
able. But  presently  the  warmth  had  a  lulling  effect,  and  the  little  golden  head 
sank  down  on  the  old  sack,  and  the  blue  eyes  were  veiled  by  their  delicate  half- 
transparent  lids. 

But  where  was  Silas  Marner  while  this  strange  visitor  had  come  to  his  hearth  ? 
He  was  in  the  cottage,  but  he  did  not  see  the  child.  During  the  last  few  weeks, 


166  THE     GIFT    OF    GOLD. 

since  he  had  lost  his  money,  he  had  contracted  the  habit  of  opening  his  door  and 
looking  out  from  time  to  time,  as  if  he  thought  that  his  money  might  be  somehow 
coming  back  to  him,  or  that  some  trace,  some  news  of  it,  might  be  mysteriously 
on  the  road,  and  be  caught  by  the  listening  ear  or  the  straining  eye.  It  was  chiefly 
at  night,  when  he  was  not  occupied  in  his  loom,  that  he  fell  into  this  repetition  of 
an  act  for  which  he  could  have  assigned  no  definite  purpose,  and  which  can  hardly 
be  understood  except  by  those  who  have  undergone  a  bewildering  separation  from 
a  supremely  loved  object.  In  the  evening  twilight,  and  later  whenever  the  night 
was  not  dark,  Silas  looked  out  on  that  narrow  prospect  round  the  Stonepits,  listen- 
ing and  gazing,  not  with  hope,  but  with  mere  yearning  and  unrest. 

This  morning  he  had  been  told  by  some  of  his  neighbors  that  it  was  New  Year's 
Eve,  and  that  he  must  sit  up  and  hear  the  old  year  rung  out  and  the  new  rung  in, 
because  that  was  good  luck,  and  might  bring  his  money  back  again.  This  was 
only  a  friendly  Raveloe-way  of  jesting  with  the  half-crazy  oddities  of  a  miser,  but 
it  had  perhaps  helped  to  throw  Silas  into  a  more  than  usually  excited  state.  Since 
the  on-coming  of  twilight  he  had  opened  his  door  again  and  again,  though  only  to 
shut  it  immediately  at  seeing  all  distance  veiled  by  the  falling  snow.  But  the  last 
time  he  opened  it  the  snow  had  ceased,  and  the  clouds  were  parting  here  and  there. 
He  stood  and  listened,  and  gazed  for  a  long  while  —  there  was  really  something  on 
the  road  coming  towards  him  then,  but  he  caught  no  sign  of  it ;  and  the  stillness 
and  the  wide  trackless  snow  seemed  to  narrow  his  solitude,  and  touched  his  yearn- 
ing with  the  chill  of  despair.  He  went  in  again,  and  put  his  right  hand  on  the 
latch  of  the  door  to  close  it,  —  but  he  did  not  close  it  :  he  was  arrested,  as  he  had 
been  already  since  his  loss,  by  the  invisible  wand  of  catalepsy,  and  stood  like  a 
graven  image,  with  wide  but  sightless  eyes,  holding  open  his  door,  powerless  to 
resist  either  the  good  or  evil  that  might  enter  there. 

When  Marner's  sensibility  returned,  he  continued  the  action  which  had  been 
arrested,  and  closed  his  door,  unaware  of  the  chasm  in  his  consciousness,  unaware 
of  any  intermediate  change,  except  that  the  light  had  grown  dim,  and  that  he  was 
chilled  and  faint.  He  thought  he  had  been  too  long  standing  at  the  door  and  look- 
ing out.  Turning  towards  the  hearth,  where  the  two  logs  had  fallen  apart,  and 
sent  forth  only  a  red  uncertain  glimmer,  he  seated  himself  on  his  fireside  chair, 
and  was  stooping  to  push  his  logs  together,  when,  to  his  blurred  vision,  it  seemed 
as  if  there  were  gold  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  hearth.  Gold  !  —  his  own  gold  — 
brought  back  to  him  as  mysteriously  as  it  had  been  taken  away !  He  felt  his  heart 
begin  to  beat  violently,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  was  unable  to  stretch  out  his 
hand  and  grasp  the  restored  treasure.  The  heap  of  gold  seemed  to  glow  and  get 
large  beneath  his  agitated  gaze.  He  leaned  forward  at  last,  and  stretched  forth 
his  hand  ;  but  instead  of  the  hard  coin  with  the  familiar  resisting  outline,  his  fin- 
gers encountered  soft  warm  curls.  In  utter  amazement,  Silas  fell  on  his  knees  and 
bent  his  head  low  to  examine  the  marvel :  it  was  a  sleeping  child  —  a  round,  fair 
thing,  with  soft  yellow  rings  all  over  his  head.  Could  this  be  his  little  sister  come 
back  to  him  in  a  dream — his  little  sister  whom  he  had  carried  about  in  his  arms 
for  a  year  before  she  died,  when  he  was  a  small  boy  without  shoes  or  stockings  ? 


THE     GIFT    OF    GOLD.  167 

That  was  the  first  thought  that  darted  across  Silas's  blank  wonderment.  Was  it  a 
dream  ?  He  rose  to  his  feet  again,  pushed  his  logs  together,  and,  throwing  on 
some  dried  leaves  and  sticks,  raised  a  flame  ;  but  the  flame  did  not  disperse  the 
vision  —  it  only  lit  up  more  distinctly  the  little  round  form  of  the  child,  and  its 
shabby  clothing.  It  was  very  much  like  his  little  sister.  Silas  sank  into  his  chair 
powerless,  under  the  double  presence  of  an  inexplicable  surprise  and  a  hurrying 
influx  of  memories.  How  and  when  had  the  child  come  in  without  his  knowledge  ? 
He  had  never  been  beyond  the  door.  But  along  with  that  question,  and  almost 
thrusting  it  away,  there  was  a  vision  of  the  old  home  and  the  old  streets  leading  to 
Lantern  Yard  —  and  within  that  vision  another,  of  the  thoughts  which  had  been 
present  with  him  in  those  far-off  scenes.  The  thoughts  were  strange  to  him  now, 
like  old  friendships  impossible  to  revive ;  and  yet  he  had  a  dreamy  feeling  that  this 
child  was  somehow  a  message  come  to  him  from  that  far-off  life :  it  stirred  fibers 
that  had  never  been  moved  in  Raveloe  —  old  quiverings  of  tenderness  —  old  im- 
pressions of  awe  at  the  presentiment  of  some  Power  presiding  over  his  life ;  for 
his  imagination  had  not  yet  extricated  itself  from  the  sense  of  mystery  in  the 
child's  sudden  presence,  and  had  formed  no  conjectures  of  ordinary  natural  means 
by  which  the  event  could  have  been  brought  about. 

But  there  was  a  cry  on  the  hearth  :  the  child  had  awaked,  and  Marner  stooped 
to  lift  it  on  his  knee.  It  clung  round  his  neck,  and  burst  louder  and  louder  into 
that  mingling  of  inarticulate  cries  with  "mammy"  by  which  little  children  express 
the  bewilderment  of  waking.  Silas  pressed  it  to  him,  and  almost  unconsciously 
uttered  sounds  of  hushing  tenderness,  while  he  bethought  himself  that  some  of 
his  porridge,  which  had  got  cool  by  the  dying  fire,  would  do  to  feed  the  child  with 
if  it  were  only  warmed  up  a  little. 

He  had  plenty  to  do  through  the  next  hour.  The  porridge,  sweetened  with 
some  dry  brown  sugar  from  an  old  store  which  he  had  refrained  from  using  for 
himself,  stopped  the  cries  of  the  little  one,  and  made  her  lift  her  blue  eyes  with  a 
wide  quiet  gaze  at  Silas,  as  he  put  the  spoon  into  her  mouth.  Presently  she  slipped 
from  his  knee  and  began  to  toddle  about,  but  with  a  pretty  stagger  that  made  Silas 
jump  up  and  follow  her  lest  she  should  fall  against  anything  that  would  hurt  her. 
But  she  only  fell  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the  ground,  and  began  to  pull  at  her  boots, 
looking  up  at  him  with  a  crying  face  as  if  the  boots  hurt  her.  He  took  her  on  his 
knee  again,  but  it  was  some  time  before  it  occurred  to  Silas's  dull  bachelor  mind 
that  the  wet  boots  were  the  grievance,  pressing  on  her  warm  ankles.  He  got  them 
off  with  difficulty,  and  baby  was  at  once  happily  occupied  with  the  primary  mystery 
of  her  own  toes,  inviting  Silas,  with  much  chuckling,  to  consider  the  mystery  too. 
But  the  wet  boots  had  at  last  suggested  to  Silas,  that  the  child  had  been  walking 
on  the  snow,  and  this  roused  him  from  his  entire  oblivion  of  any  ordinary  means 
by  which  it  could  have  entered  or  been  brought  into  his  house.  Under  the  prompt- 
ing of  this  new  idea,  and  without  waiting  to  form  conjectures,  he  raised  the  child 
in  his  arms,  and  went  to  the  door.  As  soon  as  he  had  opened  it,  there  was  the  cry 
of  "mammy  "  again,  which  Silas  had  not  heard  since  the  child's  first  hungry  wak- 
ing. Bending  forward,  he  could  just  discern  the  marks  made  by  the  little  feet  on 


168  OF    KINGS'     TREASURIES. 

the  virgin  snow,  and  he  followed  their  track  to  the  furze  bushes.  "  Mammy  !"  the 
little  one  cried  again  and  again,  stretching  itself  forward  so  as  almost  to  escape 
from  Silas's  arms,  before  he  himself  was  aware  that  there  was  something  more  than 
the  bush  before  him — that  there  was  a  human  body,  with  the  head  sunk  low  in  the 
furze,  and  half-covered  with  the  shaken  snow. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


OF     KINGS'     TREASURIES. 

MIGHTY  of  heart,  mighty  of  mind — magnanimous —  to  be  this,  is,  indeed,  to 
be  great  in  life  ;  to  become  this  increasingly,  is,  indeed,  to  "advance  in  life,"  — in 
life  itself,  not  in  the  trappings  of  it.  My  friends,  do  you  remember  that  old 
Scythian  custom,  when  the  head  of  a  house  died  ?  How  he  was  dressed  in  his 
finest  dress,  and  set  in  his  chariot,  and  carried  about  to  his  friends'  houses ;  and 
each  of  them  placed  him  at  his  table's  head,  and  all  feasted  in  his  presence  ?  Sup- 
pose it  were  offered  to  you  in  plain  words,  as  it  is  offered  to  you  in  dire  facts, 
that  you  should  gain  this  Scythian  honor  gradually,  while  you  yet  thought  yourself 
alive.  Suppose  the  offer  were  this  :  You  shall  die  slowly  ;  your  blood  shall  daily 
grow  cold,  your  flesh  petrify,  your  heart  beat  at  last  only  as  a  rusted  group  of  iron 
valves.  Your  life  shall  fade  from  you,  and  sink  through  the  earth  into  the  ice  of 
Caina  ;  but  day  by  day  your  body  shall  be  dressed  more  gaily,  and  set  in  higher 
chariots,  and  have  more  orders  on  its  breast  —  crowns  on  its  head,  if  you  will. 
Men  shall  bow  before  it,  stare  and  shout  round  it,  crowd  after  it  up  and  down  the 
streets  ;  build  palaces  for  it  ;  feast  with  it  at  their  tables'  heads  all  the  night  long. 
Your  soul  shall  stay  enough  within  it  to  know  what  they  do,  and  feel  the  weight 
of  the  golden  dress  on  its  shoulders,  and  the  furrow  of  the  crown-edge  on  the  skull  ; 
—  no  more.  Would  you  take  the  offer  verbally  made  by  the  death-angel  ?  Would 
the  meanest  among  us  take  it,  think  you  ?  Yet  practically  and  verily  we  grasp  at 
it,  every  one  of  us,  in  a  measure  ;  many  of  us  grasp  at  it  in  its  fulness  of  horror. 
Every  man  accepts  it  who  desires  to  advance  in  life  without  knowing  what  life  is  ; 
who  means  only  that  he  is  to  get  more  horses  and  more  footmen  and  more  fortune 
and  more  public  honor,  and  —  not  more^personal  soul.  He  only  is  advancing  in 
life  whose  heart  is  getting  softer,  whose  blood  warmer,  whose  brain  quicker,  whose 
spirit  is  entering  into  living  peace.  And  the  men  who  have  this  life  in  them  are 
the  true  lords  or  kings  of  the  earth — they,  and  they  only.  All  other  kingships, 
so  far  as  they  are  true,  are  only  the  practical  issue  and  expression  of  theirs  ;  if  less 
than  this,  they  are  either  dramatic  royalties, — costly  shows,  set  off,  indeed,  with 
real  jewels  instead  of  tinsel,  but  still  only  the  toys  of  nations  —  or  else  they  are  no 
royalties  at  all,  but  tyrannies,  or  the  mere  active  and  practical  issue  of  national 
folly  ;  for  which  reason  I  have  said  of  them  elsewhere,  "  Visible  governments  are 


OF    KINGS'     TREASURIES. 


169 


the  toys  of  some  nations,  the  diseases  of  others,  the  harness  of  some,  the  burdens 
of  more." 

But  I  have  no  words  for  the  wonder  with  which  I  hear  kinghood  still  spoken  of, 
even  among  thoughtful  men,  as  if  governed  nations  were  a  personal  property,  and 
might  be  bought  and  sold,  or  otherwise  acquired,  as  sheep,  of  whose  flesh  their 
king  was  to  feed,  and  whose  fleece  he  was  to  gather ;  as  if  Achilles'  indignant 
epithet  of  base  kings,  "  people-eating,"  were  the  constant  and  proper  title  of  all 
monarchs  ;  and  enlargement  of  the  king's  dominion  meant  the  same  thing  as  the 
increase  of  a  private  man's  estate  !  Kings  who  think  so,  however  powerful,  can 
no  more  be  the  true  kings  of  the 
nation  than  gadflies  are  the  kings 
of  a  horse  ;  they  suck  it,  and  may 
drive  it  wild,  but  do  not  guide  it. 
They  and  their  courts  and  their 
armiesare,  if  one  could  seeclearly, 
only  a  large  species  of  marsh  mos- 
quito, with  bayonet  proboscis  and 
melodious,  bandmastered  trum- 
peting in  the  summer  air ;  the 
twilight  being,  perhaps,  some- 
times fairer,  but  hardly  more 
wholesome,  forits  glittering  mists 
of  midge  companies.  The  true 
kings,  meanwhile,  rule  quietly,  if 
at  all,  and  hate  ruling  ;  too  many 
of  them  makezY^rrtw  rifiuto  ;  and 
if  they  do  not,  the  mob,  as  soon 
as  they  are  likely  to  become  use- 
ful to  it,  is  pretty  sure  to  make 
its  gran  refiuto  of  them. 

Yet  the  visible  king  may  also 
be  a  true  one  some  day,  if  ever 
day  comes  when  he  will  estimate 
his  dominion  by  the  force  of  it,  — 
not  the  geographical  boundaries. 
It  matters  very  little  whether  Trent  cuts  you  a  cantel  out  here,  or  Rhine  rounds 
you  a  castle  less  there  ;  but  it  does  matter  to  you,  king  of  men,  whether  you  can 
verily  say  to  this  man,  "Go,"  and  he  goeth,  and  to  another,  "Come,"  and  he  cometh. 
Whether  you  can  turn  your  people  as  you  can  Trent  ;  and  where  it  is  that  you 
bid  them  come,  and  where  go.  It  matters  to  you,  king  of  men,  whether  your 
people  hate  you,  and  die  by  you,  or  love  you,  and  live  by  you.  You  may  measure 
your  dominion  by  multitudes,  better  than  by  miles  ;  and  count  degrees  of  love-lati- 
tude, not  from,  but  to,  a  wonderfully  warm  and  infinite  equator. 

Measure!  —  nay,   you    cannot    measure.     Who    shal    measure   the   difference 


i7o  A     PERILOUS     VOYAGE. 

between  the  power  of  those  who  "  do  and  teach,"  and  who  are  greatest  in  the  king- 
doms of  earth,  as  of  heaven,  and  the  power  of  those  who  undo  and  consume,  whose 
power,  at  the  fullest,  is  only  the  power  of  the  moth,  and  the  rust  ?  Strange  !  to 
think  how  the  Moth-kings  lay  up  treasures  for  the  moth  ;  and  the  Rust-kings,  who 
are  to  their  people's  strength  as  rust  to  armor,  lay  up  treasures  for  the  rust  ;  and 
the  Robber-kings,  treasures  for  the  robber  ;  but  how  few  kings  have  ever  laid  up 
treasures  that  needed  no  guarding  —  treasures  of  which  the  more  thieves  there 
were  the  better  !  Broidered  robe,  only  to  be  rent  ;  helm  and  sword,  only  to  be 
dimmed  ;  jewel  and  gold,  only  to  be  scattered  ;  —  there  have  been  three  kinds  of 
kings  who  have  gathered  these.  Suppose  there  ever  should  arise  a  fourth  order  of 
kings  who  had  read  in  some  obscure  writing  of  long  ago  that  there  was  a  fourth 
kind  of  treasure  which  the  jewel  and  gold  could  not  equal,  neither  should  it  be 
valued  with  pure  gold.  A  web  made  fair  in  the  weaving  by  Athena's  shuttle  ;  an 
armor  forged  in  divine  fire  by  Vulcanian  force ;  a  gold  to  be  mined  in  the  very 
sun's  red  heart,  where  he  sets  over  the  Delphian  cliffs,  — deep-pictured  tissue,  im- 
penetrable armor,  potable  gold,  the  three  great  Angels  of  Conduct,  Toil,  and 
Thought,  still  calling  to  us,  and  waiting  at  the  posts  of  our  doors,  to  lead  us  with 
their  winged  power,  and  guide  us  with  their  unerring  eyes,  by  the  path  which  no 
fowl  knoweth,  and  which  the  vulture's  eye  has  not  seen  !  Suppose  kings  should 
ever  arise  who  heard  and  believed  this  word,  and  at  last  gathered  and  brought  forth 
treasures  of  Wisdom  for  their  people. 

JOHN  RUSKIN. 


A     PERILOUS     VOYAGE. 

"AFTER  you  are  fairly  in  the  water,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine,  as  she  swept  along, 
although  without  the  velocity  which  that  phrase  usually  implies,  "it  isn't  half  so 
bad  as  I  thought  it  would  be.  For  one  thing,  it  don't  feel  a  bit  salt,  although  I 
must  say  it  tasted  horribly  that  way  when  I  first  went  into  it." 

"You  didn't  expect  to  find  pickle-brine,  did  you?"  said  Mrs.  Leeks.  "Though 
if  it  was,  I  suppose  we  could  float  on  it  settin'." 

"And  as  to  bein'  cold,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine,  "the  part  of  me  that's  in  is  actually 
more  comfortable  than  that  which  is  out." 

"There's  one  thing  I  would  have  been  afraid  of,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks,  "if  we 
hadn't  made  preparations  for  it,  and  that's  sharks." 

"  Preparations  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  how  in  the  world  did  you  prepare  for  sharks  ?" 

"  Easy  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks.  "When  we  went  down  into  our  room  to  get 
ready  to  go  away  in  the  boats  we  both  put  on  black  stockin's.  I've  read  that 
sharks  never  bite  colored  people,  although  if  they  see  a  white  man  in  the  water 
they'll  snap  him  up  as  quick  as  lightnin'  ;  and  black  stockin's  was  the  nearest  we 


A    PERILOUS     VOYAGE.  171 

could  come  to  it.  You  see,  I  thought  as  like  as  not  we'd  have  some  sort  of  an 
upset  before  we  got  through." 

"  It's  a  great  comfort,"  remarked  Mrs.  Aleshine,  "  and  I'm  very  glad  you 
thought  of  it,  Mrs.  Leeks.  After  this  I  shall  make  it  a  rule  :  Black  stockin's  for 
sharks." 

"  I  suppose  in  your  case,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks,  addressing  me,  "  dark  trousers  will 
do  as  well." 

To  which  I  answered  that  I  sincerely  hoped  they  would. 

"  Another  thing  I'm  thankful  for,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine,  "  is  that  I  thought  to 
put  on  a  flannel  skeert." 

"And  what's  the  good  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks,  "  when  it's  soppin'  wet  ?  " 

"  Flannel's  flannel,"  replied  her  friend,  "  whether  it's  wet  or  dry  ;  and  if  you'd 
had  the  rheumatism  as  much  as  I  have,  you'd  know  it." 

To  this  Mrs.  Leeks  replied  with  a  sniff,  and  asked  me  how  soon  I  thought  we 
would  get  sight  of  the  ship,  for  if  we  were  going  the  wrong  way,  and  had  to  turn 
round  and  go  back,  it  would  certainly  be  very  provoking. 

I  should  have  been  happy  indeed  to  be  able  to  give  a  satisfactory  answer  to 
this  question.  Every  time  that  we  rose  upon  a  swell  I  threw  a  rapid  glance  around 
the  whole  circle  of  the  horizon,  and  at  last,  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  Mrs.  Leeks' 
question,  I  was  rejoiced  to  see,  almost  in  the  direction  in  which  I  supposed  it  ought 
to  be,  the  dark  spot  which  I  had  before  discovered.  I  shouted  the  glad  news,  and 
as  we  rose  again  my  companions  strained  their  eyes  in  the  direction  to  which  I 
pointed.  They  both  saw  it,  and  were  greatly  satisfied. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine,  "  it  seems  as  if  there  was  somethin'  to  work 
for,"  and  she  began  to  sweep  her  oar  with  great  vigor. 

"  If  you  want  to  tire  yourself  out  before  you  get  there,  Barb'ry  Aleshine,"  said 
Mrs.  Leeks,  "  you'd  better  go  on  in  that  way.  Now  what  I  advise  is  that  we  stop 
rowin'  altogether  and  have  somethin'  to  eat,  for  I'm  sure  we  need  it  to  keep  up  our 
strength." 

"  Eat  !  "  I  cried.  "  What  are  you  going  to  eat  ?  Do  you  expect  to  catch 
fish  ?  " 

"  And  eat  'em  raw  ? "  said  Mrs.  Leeks.  "  I  should  think  not.  But  do  you 
suppose,  Mr.  Craig,  that  Mrs.  Aleshine  and  me  would  go  off  and  leave  that  ship 
without  takin'  somethin'  to  eat  by  the  way  ?  Let's  all  gether  here  in  a  bunch,  and 
see  what  sort  of  a  meal  we  can  make.  And  now,  Barb'ry  Aleshine,  if  you  lay  your 
oar  down  there  on  the  water,  I  recommend  you  to  tie  it  to  one  of  your  bonnet- 
strings,  or  it'll  be  floatin'  away,  and  you  won't  get  it  again." 

As  she  said  this,  Mrs.  Leeks  put  her  right  hand  down  into  the  water,  and  fum- 
bled about  apparently  in  search  of  a  pocket.  I  could  not  but  smile  as  I  thought 
of  the  condition  of  food  when,  for  an  hour  or  more,  it  had  been  a  couple  of  feet 
under  the  surface  of  the  ocean  ;  but  my  ideas  on  the  subject  were  entirely  changed 
when  I  saw  Mrs.  Leeks  hold  up  in  the  air  two  German  sausages,  and  shake  the 
briny  drops  from  their  smooth  and  glittering  surfaces. 

"  There's   nothin',"  she  said,  "  like  sausages  for  shipwreck  and  that   kind  o' 


172  A    PERILOUS     VOYAGE. 

thing.  They're  very  sustainin',  and  bein'  covered  with  a  tight  skin,  water  can't 
get  at  'em,  no  matter  how  you  carry  'em.  I  wouldn't  bring  these  out  in  the  boat, 
because  havin'  the  beans  we  might  as  well  eat  them.  Have  you  a  knife  about  you, 
Mr.  Craig  ? " 

I  produced  a  dripping  jack-knife,  and  after  the  open  blade  had  been  waved  in 
the  air  to  dry  it  a  little,  Mrs.  Leeks  proceeded  to  divide  one  of  the  sausages,  hand- 
ing the  other  to  me  to  hold  meanwhile. 

"  Now  don't  go  eatin'  sausages  without  bread,  if  you  don't  want  'em  to  give 
you  dyspepsy,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine,  who  was  tugging  at  a  submarine  pocket. 

"  I'm  very  much  afraid  your  bread  is  all  soaked,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks. 

To  which  her  friend  replied  that  that  remained  to  be  seen,  and  forthwith  pro- 
duced with  a  splash  a  glass  preserve-jar  with  a  metal  top. 

"  I  saw  this,  nearly  empty,  as  I  looked  into  the  ship's  pantry,  and  I  stuffed  into  it 
all  the  soft  biscuits  it  would  hold.  There  was  some  sort  of  jam  left  at  the  bottom, 
so  that  the  one  who  gets  the  last  biscuit  will  have  somethin'  of  a  little  spread  on  it. 
And  now,  Mrs.  Leeks,"  she  continued  triumphantly,  as  she  unscrewed  the  top, 
"  that  rubber  ring  has  kept  'em  as  dry  as  chips.  I'm  mighty  glad  of  it,  for  I  had 
trouble  enough  gettin'  this  jar  into  my  pocket,  and  gettin'  it  out,  too,  for  that  matter." 

Floating  thus,  with  our  hands  and  shoulders  above  the  water,  we  made  a  very 
good  meal  from  the  sausages  and  and  soft  biscuit. 

"  Barb'ry  Aleshine,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks,  as  her  friend  proceeded  to  cut  the  second 
sausage,  "don't  you  lay  that  knife  down  when  you've  done  with  it,  as  if  'twas  an 
oar  ;  for  if  you  do  it'll  sink,  as  like  as  not,  about  six  miles.  I've  read  that  the 
ocean  is  as  deep  as  that  in  some  places." 

"  Goodness  gracious  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Aleshine,  "  I  hope  we  are  not  over 
one  of  them  deep  spots." 

"  There's  no  knowin',"  said  Mrs.  Leeks,  "but  if  it's  more  comfortin'  to  think 
it's  shallerer,  we'll  make  up  our  minds  that  way.  Now,  then,"  she  continued, 
"  we'll  finish  off  this  meal  with  a  little  somethin'  to  drink.  I'm  not  given  to  takin' 
spirits,  but  I  never  travel  without  a  little  whiskey,  ready  mixed  with  water,  to  take 
if  it  should  be  needed." 

So  saying,  she  produced  from  one  of  her  pockets  a  whiskey-flask  tightly  corked, 
and  of  its  contents  we  each  took  a  sip,  Mrs.  Aleshine  remarking  that,  leaving  out 
being  chilled  or  colicky,  we  were  never  likely  to  need  it  more  than  now. 

Thus  refreshed  and  strengthened,  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine  took  up  their 
oars  while  I  swam  slightly  in  advance,  as  before.  When,  with  occasional  intermis- 
sions of  rest,  and  a  good  deal  of  desultory  conversation,  we  had  swept  and  swam  for 
about  an  hour,  Mrs.  Leeks  suddenly  exclaimed  :  "  I  can  see  that  thing  ever  so 
much  plainer  now,  and  I  don't  believe  it's  a  ship  at  all.  To  me  it  looks  like 
bushes." 

"  You're  mighty  long-sighted  without  your  specks,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine,  "  and 
I'm  not  sure  but  what  you're  right." 

For  ten  minutes  or  more  I  had  been  puzzling  over  the  shape  of  the  dark  spot 
which  was  now  nearly  all  the  time  in  sight.  Its  peculiar  form  had  filled  me  with  a 


A     PERILOUS     VOYAGE.  173 

dreadful  fear  that  it  was  the  steamer,  bottom  upwards,  although  I  knew  enough 
about  nautical  matters  to  have  no  good  reason  to  suppose  that  this  could  be  the 
case.  I  am  not  far-sighted,  but  when  Mrs.  Leeks  suggested  bushes,  I  gazed  at 
the  distant  object  with  totally  different  ideas,  and  soon  began  to  believe  that  it  was 
not  a  ship,  either  right  side  up  or  wrong  side  up,  but  that  it  might  be  an  island. 
This  belief  I  proclaimed  to  my  companions,  and  for  some  time  we  all  worked  with 
increased  energy  in  the  desire  to  get  near  enough  to  make  ourselves  certain  in  re- 
gard to  this  point. 

"  As  true  as  I'm  standin'  here,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks,  who,  although  she  could  not 
read  without  spectacles,  had  remarkably  good  sight  at  long  range,  "  them  is  trees 
and  bushes  that  I  see  before  me,  though  they  do  seem  to  be  growin'  right  out  of 
the  water." 

"  There's  an  island  under  them  ;  you  may  be  sure  of  that !  "  I  cried.  "  And 
isn't  this  ever  so  much  better  than  a  sinking  ship  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine.  "  I'm  used  to  the  ship,  and  as 
long  as  it  didn't  sink  I'd  prefer  it.  There's  plenty  to  eat  on  board  of  it,  and  good 
beds  to  sleep  on,  which  is  more  than  can  be  expected  on  alittle  bushy  place  like  that 
ahead  of  us.  But  then,  the  ship  might  sink  all  of  a  suddint,  beds,  vittles  and  all." 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  is  the  island  the  other  boats  went  to  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Leeks. 

This  question  I  had  already  asked  of  myself.  I  had  been  told  that  the  island 
to  which  the  captain  intended  to  take  his  boats  lay  about  thirty  miles  south  of  the 
point  where  we  left  the  steamer.  Now  I  knew  very  well  that  we  had  not  come 
thirty  miles,  and  had  reason  to  believe,  moreover,  that  the  greater  part  of  the 
progress  we  had  made  had  been  towards  the  north.  It  was  not  at  all  probable 
that  the  position  of  this  island  was  unknown  to  our  captain  ;  and  it  must,  therefore, 
have  been  considered  by  him  as  an  unsuitable  place  for  the  landing  of  his  passen- 
gers. There  might  be  many  reasons  for  this  unsuitableness  ;  the  island  might  be 
totally  barren  and  desolate  ;  it  might  be  the  abode  of  unpleasant  natives  ;  and  more 
important  than  anything  else,  it  was,  in  all  probability,  a  spot  where  steamers 
never  touched. 

But,  whatever  its  disadvantages,  I  was  most  wildly  desirous  to  reach  it  ;  more 
so,  I  believe,  than  either  of  my  companions.  I  do  not  mean  that  they  were  not 
sensible  of  their  danger,  and  desirous  to  be  freed  from  it ;  but  they  were  women 
who  had  probably  had  a  rough  time  of  it  during  a  great  part  of  their  lives,  and  on 
emerging  from  their  little  circle  of  rural  experiences  accepted  with  equanimity, 
and  almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  rough  times  which  come  to  people  in  the 
great  outside  world. 

"  I  do  not  believe,"  I  said,  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Leeks,  "  that  that  is  the  island  to 
which  the  captain  would  have  taken  us ;  but,  whatever  it  is,  it  is  dry  land,  and  we 
must  get  there  as  soon  as  we  can." 

"That's  true,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine,  "for  I'd  like  to  have  ground  nearer  to  my 
feet  than  six  miles,  and  if  we  don't  find  anythin'  to  eat  and  any  place  to  sleep  when 
we  get  there,  it's  no  more  than  can  be  said  of  where  we  are  now." 

"You're  too  particular,  Barb'ry  Aleshine,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks,  "about  your  com- 


i74  A     PERILOUS     VOYAGE. 

forts.     If  you  find  the  ground  too  hard  to  sleep  on  when  you  get  there,  you  can 
put  on  your  life-preserver,  and  go  to  bed  in  the  water." 

"Very  good,"  said  Mrs.  Aleshine;  "and  if  these  islands  are  made,  of  coral,  as 
I've  heard  they  was,  and  if  they're  as  full  of  small  p'ints  as  some  coral  I've  got  at 
home,  you'll  be  glad  to  take  a  berth  by  me,  Mrs.  Leeks." 

I  counseled  my  companions  to  follow  me  as  rapidly  as  possible,  and  we  all 
pushed  vigorously  forward.  When  we  had  approached  near  enough  to  the  island 
to  see  what  sort  of  place  it  really  was,  we  perceived  that  it  was  a  low-lying  spot, 
apparently  covered  with  verdure,  and  surrounded,  as  far  as  we  could  see  as  we 
rose  on  the  swells,  by  a  rocky  reef,  against  which  a  tolerably  high  surf  was  run- 
ning. I  knew  enough  of  the  formation  of  these  coral  islands  to  suppose  that 
within  this  reef  was  a  lagoon  of  smooth  water,  into  which  there  were  openings 
through  the  rocky  barrier.  It  was  necessary  to  try  to  find  one  of  these,  for  it 
would  be  difficult  and  perhaps  dangerous  to  attempt  to  land  through  the  surf. 

Before  us  we  could  see  a  continuous  line  of  white-capped  breakers  ;  and  so  I  led 
my  little  party  to  the  right,  hoping  that  we  would  soon  see  signs  of  an  opening  in 
the  reef. 

We  swam  and  paddled,  however,  for  a  long  time,  and  still  the  surf  rolled  menac- 
ingly on  the  rocks  before  us.  We  were  now  as  close  to  the  island  as  we  could  ap- 
proach with  safety,  and  I  determined  to  circumnavigate  it,  if  necessary,  before  I  would 
attempt,  with  these  two  women,  to  land  upon  that  jagged  reef.  At  last  we  perceived, 
at  no  great  distance  before  us,  a  spot  where  there  seemed  to  be  no  breakers  ;  and 
when  we  reached  it  we  found,  to  our  unutterable  delight,  that  here  was  smooth  water 
flowing  through  a  wide  opening  in  the  reef.  The  rocks  were  piled  up  quite  high, 
and  the  reef,  at  this  point  at  least,  was  a  wide  one  ;  for  as  we  neared  the  opening 
we  found  that  it  narrowed  very  soon  and  made  a  turn  to  the  left,  so  that  from  the 
outside  we  could  not  see  into  the  lagoon. 

I  swam  into  this  smooth  water,  followed  close  by  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Ale- 
shine,  who,  however,  soon  became  unable  to  use  their  oars,  owing  to  the  proximity 
of  the  rocks.  Dropping  these  useful  implements,  they  managed  to  paddle  after 
me  with  their  hands  ;  and  they  were  as  much  astonished  as  I  was  when,  just  after 
making  the  slight  turn,  we  found  stretched  across  the  narrow  passage  a  great  iron 
bar  about  eight  or  ten  inches  above  the  water.  A  little  farther  on,  and  two  or 
three  feet  above  the  water,  another  iron  bar  extended  from  one  rocky  wall  to  the 
other.  Without  uttering  a  word,  I  examined  the  lower  bar,  and  found  one  end  of 
it  fastened  by  means  of  a  huge  padlock  to  a  great  staple  driven  into  the  rock. 
The  lock  was  securely  wrapped  in  what  appeared  to  be  tarred  canvas.  A  staple 
through  an  eye-hole  in  the  bar  secured  the  other  end  of  it  to  the  rocks. 

"  These  bars  were  put  here,"  I  exclaimed,  "  to  keep  out  boats,  whether  at  high 
or  low  water.  You  see  they  can  only  be  thrown  out  of  the  way  by  taking  off  the 
padlocks." 

"  They  won't  keep  us  out,"  said  Mrs.  Leeks,  "  for  we  can  duck  under.  I  sup- 
pose whoever  put  'em  here  didn't  expect  anybody  to  arrive  on  life-preservers." 

FRANK  R.  STOCKTON. 


PROTECTION.  175 


PROTECTION. 

WELL,  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  You  have  heard  the  Prime-Minister  declare 
that,  if  he  could  restore  all  the  protection  which  you  have  had,  that  protection  would 
not  benefit  agriculturists.  Is  that  your  belief  ?  If  so,  why  not  proclaim  it  ?  and 
if  it  is  not  your  conviction,  you  will  have  falsified  your  mission  in  this  House,  by 
following  the  right  honorable  baronet  out  into  the  lobby,  and  opposing  inquiry  into 
the  condition  of  the  very  man  who  sent  you  here. 

With  mere  politicians  I  have  no  right  to  expect  to  succeed  in  this  motion.  But 
I  have  no  hesitation  in  telling  you,  that,  if  you  give  me  a  committee  of  this  House,  I 
will  explode  the  delusion  of  agricultural  protection  !  I  will  bring  forward  such 
a  mass  of  evidence,  and  give  you  such  a  preponderance  of  talent  and  of  authority, 
that  when  the  Blue-Book  is  published  and  sent  forth  to  the  world,  as  we  can  now 
send  it,  by  our  vehicles  of  information,  your  system  of  protection  shall  not  live  in 
public  opinion  for  two  years  afterward.  Politicians  do  not  want  that.  This  cry  of 
protection  has  been  a  very  convenient  handle  for  politicians.  The  cry  of  protection 
carried  the  counties  at  the  last  election,  and  politicians  gained  honors,  emoluments, 
and  place  by  it. 

But  is  that  old  tattered  flag  of  protection,  tarnished  and  torn  as  it  is  already,  to 
be  kept  hoisted  still  in  the  counties  for  the  benefit  of  politicians  ;  or  will  you  come 
forward  honestly  and  fairly  to  inquire  into  this  question  ?  I  cannot  believe  that 
the  gentry  of  England  will  be  made  mere  drum-heads  to  be  sounded  upon  by  a 
Prime-Minister  to  give  forth  unmeaning  and  empty  sounds,  and  to  have  no  articu- 
late voice  of  their  own.  No  !  You  are  the  gentry  of  England  who  represent  the 
counties.  You  are  the  aristocracy  of  England.  Your  fathers  led  our  fathers  ;  you 
may  lead  us  if  you  will  go  the  right  way.  But,  although  you  have  retained  your 
influence  with  this  country  longer  than  any  of  her  aristocracy,  it  has  not  been  by 
opposing  popular  opinion,  or  by  setting  yourselves  against  the  spirit  of  the  age. 

In  other  days,  when  the  battle  and  the  hunting-fields  were  the  tests  of  manly 
vigor,  your  fathers  were  first  and  foremost  there.  The  aristocracy  of  England  were 
not  like  the  noblesse  of  France,  the  mere  minions  of  a  court ;  nor  were  they  like 
the  hidalgos  of  Madrid,  who  dwindled  into  pigmies.  You  have  been  English- 
men. You  have  not  shown  a  want  of  courage  and  firmness  when  any  call  has  been 
made  upon  you. 

This  is  a  new  era.  It  is  the  age  of  improvement,  it  is  the  age  of  social  advance- 
ment, not  the  age  for  war  or  for  feudal  sports.  You  live  in  a  mercantile  age,  when 
the  whole  wealth  of  the  world  is  poured  into  your  lap.  You  cannot  have  the  advan- 
tages of  commercial  rents  and  feudal  privileges  ;  but  you  may  be  what  you  always 
have  been,  if  you  will  identify  yourselves  with  the  spirit  of  the  age.  The  English 
people  look  to  the  gentry  and  aristocracy  of  their  country  as  their  leaders.  I,  who 
am  not  one  of  you,  have  no  hesitation  in  telling  you  that  there  is  a  deep-rooted,  an 
hereditary  prejudice,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  in  your  favor  in  this  country.  But  you 


176  TO    HIS     WIFE. 

never  got  it,  and  you  will  not  keep  it,  by  obstructing  the  spirit  of  the  age.  If  you 
are  indifferent  to  enlightened  means  of  finding  employment  to  your  own  peasantry; 
if  you  are  found  obstructing  that  advance  which  is  calculated  to  knit  nations  more 
together  in  the  bonds  of  peace  by  means  of  commercial  intercourse  ;  if  you  are 
found  fighting  against  the  discoveries  which  have  almost  given  breath  and  life  to 
material  nature,  and  setting  up  yourselves  as  obstructives  of  that  which  destiny 
has  decreed  shall  go  on,  —  why,  then,  you  will  be  the  gentry  of  England  no  longer, 
and  others  will  be  found  to  take  your  place. 

RICHARD  COBDEN. 


TO     HIS     WIFE. 

DEAR  PRUE  :  —  I  have  yours  of  the  I4th,  and  am  infinitely  obliged  to  you  for 
the  length  of  it.  I  do  not  know  another  whom  I  could  commend  for  that  circum- 
stance ;  but  where  we  entirely  love,  the  continuance  of  anything  they  do  to  please 
us  is  a  pleasure.  As  for  your  relations  ;  once  for  all,  pray  take  it  for  granted  that 
my  regard  and  conduct  towards  all  and  singular  of  them  shall  be  as  you  direct. 

I  hope,  by  the  grace  of  God,  to  continue  what  you  wish  me,  everyway  an  honest 
man.  My  wife  and  my  children  are  the  objects  that  have  wholly  taken  up  my 
heart ;  and  as  I  am  not  invited  or  encouraged  in  anything  which  regards  the  public, 
I  am  easy  under  that  neglect  or  envy  of  my  past  actions,  and  cheerfully  contract 
that  diffusive  spirit  within  the  interests  of  my  own  family.  You  are  the  head  of 
us  ;  and  I  stoop  to  a  female  reign,  as  being  naturally  made  the  slave  of  beauty. 
But,  to  prepare  for  our  manner  of  living  when  we  are  again  together,  give  me 
leave  to  say,  while  I  am  here  at  leisure,  and  come  to  lie  at  Chelsea,  what  I  think 
may  contribute  to  our  better  way  of  living.  I  very  much  approve  Mrs.  Evans  and 
her  husband,  and,  if  you  take  my  advice,  I  would  have  them  have  a  being  in  our 
house,  and  Mrs.  Clark  the  care  and  inspection  of  the  nursery.  I  would  have  you 
entirely  at  leisure,  to  pass  your  time  with  me,  in  diversions,  in  books,  in  entertain- 
ments, and  no  manner  of  business  intrude  upon  us  but  at  stated  times  :  for,  though 
you  are  made  to  be  the  delight  of  my  eyes,  and  food  of  all  my  senses  and  faculties, 
yet  a  turn  of  care  and  housewifery,  and  I  know  not  what  prepossession  against  con- 
versation-pleasures, robs  me  of  the  witty  and  the  handsome  woman,  to  a  degree  not 
to  be  expressed.  I  will  work  my  brains  and  fingers  to  procure  us  plenty  of  things, 
and  demand  nothing  of  you  but  to  take  delight  in  agreeable  dresses,  cheerful  dis- 
courses, and  gay  sights,  attended  by  me.  This  may  be  done  by  putting  the  kitchen 
and  the  nursery  in  the  hands  I  propose ;  and  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  pass 
as  much  time  at  home  as  I  possibly  can  in  the  best  company  in  the  world.  .  .  . 

Miss  Moll  grows  a  mighty  beauty,  and  she  shall  be  very  prettily  dressed,  as  likewise 


ON    THE     WAR     OF    1812.  177 

shall  Betty  and  Eugene  ;  and,  if  I  throw  away  a  little  money  in  adorning  my  brats, 
I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  They  are,  I  thank  God,  all  very  well  ;  and  the  charm- 
ing form  of  their  mother  has  tempered  the  likeness  they  bear  to  their  rough 
sire,  who  is,  with  the  greatest  fondness,  your  most  obliged  and  most  obedient 
husband, 

SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


ON     THE     WAR     OF     1812. 

WE  are  told,  by  gentlemen  in  the  opposition,  that  government  has  not  done  all 
that  was  incumbent  on  it  to  do,  to  avoid  just  cause  of  complaint  on  the  part  of 
Great  Britain  ;  that  in  particular  the  certificates  of  protection,  authorized  by  the 
act  of  1796,  are  fraudulently  used. 

Sir,  government  has  done  too  much  in  granting  those  paper  protections.  I  can 
never  think  of  them  without  being  shocked.  They  resemble  the  passes  which  the 
master  grants  to  his  negro  slave  :  "  Let  the  bearer,  Mungo,  pass  and  repass  without 
molestation."  What  do  they  imply  ?  That  Great  Britain  has  a  right  to  seize  all 
who  are  not  provided  with  them.  From  their  very  nature,  they  must  be  liable  to 
abuse  on  both  sides.  If  Great  Britain  desires  a  mark,  by  which  she  can  know  her 
own  subjects,  let  her  give  them  an  ear-mark.  The  colors  that  float  from  the  mast- 
head should  be  the  credentials  of  our  seamen.  There  is  no  safety  to  us,  and  the 
gentlemen  have  shown  it,  but  in  the  rule  that  all  who  sail  under  the  flag  (not  being 
enemies),  are  protected  by  the  flag.  It  is  impossible  that  this  country  should  ever 
abandon  the  gallant  tars  who  have  won  for  us  such  splendid  trophies.  Let  me  sup- 
pose that  the  genius  of  Columbia  should  visit  one  of  them  in  his  oppressor's  prison, 
and  attempt  to  reconcile  him  to  his  forlorn  and  wretched  condition.  She  would 
say  to  him,  in  the  language  of  gentlemen  on  the  other  side :  "  Great  Britain  intends 
you  no  harm  ;  she  did  not  mean  to  impress  you,  but  one  of  her  own  subjects ;  hav- 
ing taken  you  by  mistake,  I  will  remonstrate,  and  try  to  prevail  upon  her,  by 
peaceable  means,  to  release  you  ;  but  I  cannot,  my  son,  fight  for  you."  If  he  did 
not  consider  this  mere  mockery,  the  poor  tar  would  address  her  judgment  and  say: 
"  You  owe  me,  my  country,  protection  ;  I  owe  you,  in  return,  obedience.  I  am  no 
British  subject ;  I  am  a  native  of  old  Massachusetts,  where  lived  my  aged  father, 
my  wife,  my  children.  I  have  faithfully  discharged  my  duty.  Will  you  refuse  to 
do  yours?"  Appealing  to  her  passions,  he  would  continue:  "I  lost  this  eye  in 
fighting  under  Truxton,  with  the  Insurgente  ;  I  got  this  scar  before  Tripoli ;  I  broke 
this  leg  on  board  the  Constitution,  when  the  Guerriere  struck."  ...  I  will  not 
imagine  the  dreadful  catastrophe  to  which  he  would  be  driven  by  an  abandonment 
of  him  to  his  oppressor.  It  will  not  be,  it  cannot  be,  that  his  country  will  refuse 
him  protection.  .  .  . 


i78  A     TALENT    FOR    MUSIC. 

An  honorable  peace  is  attainable  only  by  an  efficient  war.  My  plan  would  be 
to  call  out  the  ample  resources  of  the  country,  give  them  a  judicious  direction, 
prosecute  the  war  with  the  utmost  vigor,  strike  wherever  we  can  reach  the  enemy, 
at  sea  or  on  land,  and  negotiate  the  terms  of  a  peace  at  Quebec  or  at  Halifax.  We 
are  told  that  England  is  a  proud  and  lofty  nation,  which,  disdaining  to  wait  for 
danger,  meets  ii;  half  way.  Haughty  as  she  is  we  triumphed  over  her  once,  and,  if 
we  do  not  listen  to  the  counsels  of  timidity  and  despair,  we  shall  again  prevail.  In 
such  a  cause,  with  the  aid  of  Providence,  we  must  come  out  crowned  with  success  ; 
but,  if  we  fail,  let  us  fail  like  men,  lash  ourselves  to  our  gallant  tars,  and  expire 
together  in  one  common  struggle,  righting  for  free  trade  and  seamen's  rights. 

HENRY  CLAY. 


A     TALENT     FOR     MUSIC. 

IT  may  have  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  on,  that  my  attention  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  the  sound  of  music  issuing  from  the  back  room,  where  Mr.  Finkelstein 
remained  alone.  I  recognized  the  tune  as  the  Carnival  of  Venice ;  and  it  brought 
my  heart  into  my  mouth,  for  that  was  one  of  the  tunes  that  my  grandmother  had 
used  to  play  upon  her  piano.  But  now  the  instrument  was  not  a  piano.  Unless 
my  ears  totally  deceived  me,  it  was  a  hand-organ.  This  struck  me  as  very  odd  ; 
and  I  went  to  the  door  of  the  parlor,  and  looked  in.  There  sat  Mr.  Finkelstein,  a 
newspaper  open  before  him,  and  a  cigar  between  his  fingers,  reading  and  smoking ; 
while  on  the  floor  in  front  of  him,  surely  enough,  stood  a  hand-organ  ;  and,  with 
his  foot  upon  the  crank  of  it,  he  was  operating  the  instrument  just  as  you  would 
operate  the  wheel  of  a  bicycle.  Well,  I  couldn't  help  smiling,  though  I  knew  that 
it  was  unmannerly  of  me  to  do  so.  The  scene  was  really  too  ludicrous  for  any- 
thing. Mr.  Finkelstein  appeared  a  little  embarrassed  when  he  spied  me  looking  at 
him,  and  stopped  his  playing,  and  said  rather  sheepishly,  with  somewhat  of  the  air 
of  a  naughty  child  surprised  in  mischief,  "  Vail,  Kraikory,  I  suppose  you  tink  I'm 
crazy,  hey  ?  Vail,  I  cain't  help  it  ;  I'm  so  fond  of  music.  But  look  at  here, 
Kraikory;  don't  you  say  nodings  to  Solly  about  it,  will  you  ?  Dere's  a  goot  poy. 
Don't  you  mention  it  to  him.  He  vouldn't  naifer  let  me  hear  de  laist  of  it." 

I  having  pledged  myself  to  secrecy,  Mr.  Finkelstein  picked  the  hand-organ  up» 
and  locked  it  away  out  of  sight  in  a  closet.  But  after  we  had  had  our  dinner,  he 
brought  it  forth  again,  and,  not  without  some  manifest  hesitation,  addressed  me 
thus  :  "  Look  at  here,  Kraikory ;  dere's  a  proverp  which  says  dot  man  is  a  creature 
of  haibits.  Vail,  Kraikory,  I  got  a  sort  of  a  haibit  to  lie  down  and  take  a  short 
naip  every  day  aifter  my  meals.  And  say,  Kraikory,  you  know  how  fond  of  music 
I  am,  don't  you?  I  simply  dote  on  it,  Kraikory.  I  guess  maybe  I'm  de  fondest 
man  of  music  in  de  United  States  of  America.  And  —  vail,  look  at  here,  Kraikory, 


A     TALENT    FOR    MUSIC. 


179 


as  you  ain't  got  nodings  in  particular  to  do,  I  tought  maybe  you  vouldn't  mind  to 
sit  here  a  few  minutes,  and  —  and  shust  turn  dot  craink  a  little  while  I  go  to  sleep 
—  hey  ? " 

I  assented  willingly  ;  so  Mr.  Finkelstein  lay  down  upon  his  lounge,  and  I  began 
to  turn  the  crank,  thereby  grinding  out  the  rollicking  measures  of  Finnigan's 
Ball. 

"  My  kracious,  Kraikory,  you  do  it  splendid,"  the  old  gentleman  exclaimed,  by 
way  of  encouragement.  "  You  got  a  graind  tailent  for  music,  Kraikory."  Then 


GREGORY    SURPRISES    MR.   FINKELSTEIN    AT  THE    HANL>  ORGAN. 

I  heard  him  chuckle  softly  to  himself,  and  murmur,  "  I  cain't  help  it,  I  aictually 
cam't.     I  must  haif  my  shoke."     Very  soon  he  was  snoring  peacefully. 


Mr.  Finkelstein,  when  he  first  noticed  me  poring  over  my  school-books  in  the 
shop,  expressed  the  liveliest  kind  of  satisfaction  with  my  conduct. 

"  Dot's  right,  Kraikory,"  he  cried.  "  Dot's  maiknificent.  Go  ahead  mit  your 
education.  Dere  ain't  nodings  like  it.  A  first-claiss  education  — vail,  sir,  it's  de 
graindest  advaintage  a  feller  can  haif  in  de  baittle  of  life.  Yes,  sir,  dot's  a  faict. 
You  go  ahead  mit  your  education,  and  you  study  real  hard,  and  you'll  get  to  be  — 


!8o  A     TALENT    FOR     MUSIC. 

why,  you  might  get  to  be  an  alderman,  no  mistake  about  it.  But  look  at  here, 
Kraikory  ;  tell  me  ;  where  you  got  cle  books,  hey  ?  You  bought  'em  ?  You  don't 
say  so  ?  Vail,  what  you  pay  for  dem,  hey,  Kraikory  ?  Two  tollars  !  Two  aictual 
tollars !  My  kracious  !  Vail,  look  at  here,  Kraikory ;  I  like  to  make  you  a  little 
present  of  dem  books,  so  here's  a  two-tollar  pill  to  reimburse  you.  Oh  !  dot's  all 
right.  Don't  mention  it.  Put  it  in  de  baink.  Do  what  you  please  mit  it.  I  got 
anudder." 

And  every  now  and  then  during  the  summer  he  would  inquire,  "Vail,  Kraikory, 
how  you  getting  on  mit  your  education  ?  Vail,  I  suppose  you  must  know  pretty 
much  aiferydings  by  dis  time,  hey  ?  Vail,  now  I  give  you  a  sum.  If  I  can  buy 
fife  barrels  of  aipples  for  six  tollars  and  a  quowter,  how  much  will  seventeen 
barrels  of  potatoes  coast  me,  hey?  .  .  .  Ach,  I  was  only  shoking,  was  I? 
Vail,  dot's  a  faict ;  I  was  only  shoking  ;  and  you  was  pretty  smart  to  find  it  out. 
But  now,  shoking  aside,  I  tell  you  what  you  do.  You  keep  right  on  mit  your  edu- 
cation, and  you  study  real  hard,  and  you'll  get  to  be  —  why,  you  might  get  to  be 
as  big  a  man  as  Horace  Greeley,  aictually."  Horace  Greeley  was  a  candidate  for 
the  presidency  that  year,  and  he  had  no  more  ardent  partisan  than  my  employer. 

After  the  summer  had  passed,  and  September  came,  Mr.  Finkelstein  called  me 
into  the  parlor  one  day,  and  began,  "  Now,  look  at  here,  Kraikory  ;  I  got  somedings 
important  to  talk  to  you  about.  I  been  tinking  about  dot  little  maitter  of  your 
education  a  good  deal  lately ;  and  I  talked  mit  Solly  about  it,  and  got  his  advice  ; 
and  at  laist  I  made  up  my  mind  dot  you  oughter  go  to  school.  You  got  so  much 
aimbition  about  you,  dot  if  you  get  a  first-claiss  education  while  you're  young,  you 
might  get  to  be  vun  of  de  biggest  men  in  New  York  City  aifter  you're  grown  up. 
Vail,  me  and  Solly,  we  talked  it  all  ofer,  and  we  made  up  our  minds  dot  you  better 
go  to  school  right  away. 

"  Vail,  now  I  tell  you  what  I  do.  I  found  out  de  public  schools  open  for  de 
season  next  Monday  morning.  Vail,  next  Monday  morning  I  take  you  up  to  de 
public  school  in  Fifty-first  Street,  and  I  get  you  aidmitted.  And  now  I  tell  you 
what  I  do.  If  you  study  real  hard,  and  get  A-number-vun  marks,  and  cratchuate 
all  right  when  de  time  comes  —  vail,  den  I  send  you  to  college  !  Me  and  Solly,  we 
talked  it  all  ofer,  and  dot's  what  we  made  up  our  minds  we  oughter  do.  Dere  ain't 
nodings  like  a  good  education,  Kraikory ;  you  can  bet  ten  tousand  tollars  on  dot. 
When  I  was  your  age  I  didn't  haif  no  chaince  at  vun  ;  and  dot's  why  I'm  so 
eeknorant.  But  now  you  got  de  chaince,  Kraikory  ;  and  you  go  ahead  and  take 
advaintage  of  it.  My  kracious  !  When  I  see  you  cratchuate  from  college,  I'll  be 
so  prout  I  von't  know  what  to  do." 

HENRY  HARLAND  (Sidney  Luska). 


THE    MILITIA    BILL.  181 


THE     MILITIA     BILL. 

AGAINST  whom  are  these  charges  brought  ?  Against  men,  who  in  the  war  of 
the  Revolution  were  in  the  councils  of  the  nation,  or  fighting  the  battles  of  your 
country.  And  by  whom  are  they  made  ?  By  runaways  chiefly  from  the  British 
dominions,  since  the  breaking  out  of  the  French  troubles.  It  is  insufferable.  It 
cannot  be  borne.  It  must  and  ought,  with  severity,  to  be  put  down  in  this  House ; 
and  out  of  it  to  meet  the  lie  direct.  We  have  no  fellow-feeling  for  the  suffering 
and  oppressed  Spaniards !  Yet  even  them,  we  do  not  reprobate.  Strange !  that 
we  should  have  no  objection  to  any  other  people  or  government,  civilized  or  savage, 
in  the  whole  world !  The  great  autocrat  of  all  the  Russias  receives  the  homage  of 
our  high  consideration.  The  Dey  of  Algiers  and  his  divan  of  pirates  are  very 
civil,  good  sort  of  people,  with  whom  we  find  no  difficulty  in  maintaining  the  rela- 
tions of  peace  and  amity.  "Turks,  Jews,  and  infidels  ;"  Melimelli,  or  the  Little 
Turtle ;  barbarians  and  savages  of  every  clime  and  color,  are  welcome  to  our  arms. 
With  chiefs  of  banditti,  negro  or  mulatto,  we  can  treat  and  trade.  Name,  how- 
ever, but  England,  and  all  our  antipathies  are  up  in  arms  against  her.  Against 
whom  ?  Against  those  whose  blood  runs  in  our  veins  ;  in  common  with  whom,  we 
claim  Shakespeare,  and  Newton,  and  Chatham,  for  our  countrymen  ;  whose  form  of 
government  is  the  freest  on  earth,  our  own  only  excepted  ;  from  whom  every  valu- 
able principle  of  our  own  institutions  has  been  borrowed  —  representation,  jury 
trial,  voting  the  supplies,  writ  of  habeas  corpus,  our  whole  civil  and  criminal  juris- 
prudence;—  against  our  fellow  Protestants,  identified  in  blood,  in  language,  in 
religion,  with  ourselves.  In  what  school  did  the  worthies  of  our  land,  the  Wash- 
ingtons,  Henrys,  Hancocks,  Franklins,  Rutledges  of  America,  learn  those  principles 
of  civil  liberty  which  were  so  nobly  asserted  by  their  wisdom  and  valor?  Ameri- 
can resistance  to  British  usurpation  has  not  been  more  warmly  cherished  by  these 
great  men  and  their  compatriots  ;  not  more  by  Washington,  Hancock,  and  Henry, 
than  by  Chatham  and  his  illustrious  associates  in  the  British  Parliament.  It  ought 
to  be  remembered,  too,  that  the  heart  of  the  English  people  was  with  us.  It  was  a 
selfish  and  corrupt  ministry,  and  their  servile  tools,  to  whom  we  were  not  more 
opposed  than  they  were.  I  trust  that  none  such  may  ever  exist  among  us  ;  for 
tools  will  never  be  wanting  to  subserve  the  purposes,  however  ruinous  or  wicked, 
of  kings  and  ministers  of  state.  I  acknowledge  the  influence  of  a  Shakespeare 
and  a  Milton  upon  my  imagination,  of  a  Locke  upon  my  understanding,  of  a  Sidney 
upon  my  political  principles,  of  a  Chatham  upon  qualities  which,  would  to  God  I 
possessed  in  common  with  that  illustrious  man  !  of  a  Tillotson,  a  Sherlock,  and  a 
Porteus  upon  my  religion.  This  is  a  British  influence  which  I  can  never  shake  off. 

JOHN  RANDOLPH. 


182  ON    CONVERSATION. 


ON     CONVERSATION. 

.  .  .  Let  a  man  have  read,  thought,  studied,  as  much  as  he  may,  rarely 
will  he  reach  his  possible  advantages  as  a  ready  man,  unless  he  has  exercised  his 
powers  much  in  conversation  —  that  was  Lord  Bacon's  idea.  Now,  this  wise  and 
useful  remark  points  in  a  direction  not  objective,  but  subjective  —  that  is,  it  does 
not  promise  any  absolute  extension  to  truth  itself,  but  only  some  greater  facilities 
to  the  man  who  expounds  or  diffuses  the  truth.  Nothing  will  be  done  for  truth 
objectively  that  would  not  at  any  rate  be  done,  but  subjectively  it  will  be  done  with 
more  fluency,  and  at  less  cost  of  exertion  to  the  doer.  On  the  contrary,  my  own 
growing  reveries  on  the  latent  powers  of  conversation  (which,  though  a  thing  that 
then  I  hated,  yet  challenged  at  times  unavoidably  my  attention)  pointed  to  an 
absolute  birth  of  new  insight  into  the  truth  itself,  as  inseparable  from  the  finer 
and  more  scientific  exercise  of  the  talking  art.  It  would  not  be  the  brilliancy,  the 
ease,  or  the  adroitness  of  the  expounder  that  would  benefit,  but  the  absolute  inter- 
ests of  the  thing  expounded.  A  feeling  dawned  on  me  of  a  secret  magic  lurking  in 
the  peculiar  life,  velocities,  and  contagious  ardor  of  conversation,  quite  separate 
from  any  which  belonged  to  books  ;  arming  a  man  with  new  forces,  and  not  merely 
with  a  new  dexterity  in  wielding  the  old  ones.  I  felt,  and  in  this  I  could  not  be 
mistaken,  a-<  too  certainly  it  was  a  fact  of  my  own  experience,  that  in  the  electric 
kindling  of  life  between  two  minds,  and  far  less  from  the  kindling  natural  to  con- 
flict (though  that  also  is  something)  than  from  the  kindling  through  sympathy  with 
the  object  discussed,  in  its  momentary  coruscation  of  shifting  phases,  there  some- 
times arise  glimpses  and  shy  revelations  of  affinity,  suggestion,  relation,  analogy, 
that  could  not  have  been  approached  through  any  avenues  of  methodical  study. 
Great  organists  find  the  same  effect  of  inspiration,  the  same  result  of  power  creative 
and  revealing,  in  the  mere  movement  and  velocity  of  their  own  voluntaries,  like  the 
heavenly  wheels  of  Milton,  throwing  off  fiery  flakes  and  bickering  flames  ;  these 
impromptu  torrents  of  music  create  rapturous  fioriture,  beyond  all  capacity  in  the 
artist  to  register,  or  afterward  to  imitate.  The  reader  must  be  well  aware  that 
many  philosophic  instances  exist  where  a  change  in  the  degree  makes  a  change  in 
the  kind.  Usually  this  is  otherwise  ;  the  prevailing  rule  is,  that  the  principle  sub- 
sists unaffected  by  any  possible  variation  in  the  amount  or  degree  of  the  force. 
But  a  large  class  of  exceptions  must  have  met  the  reader,  though  from  want  of  a 
pencil  he  has  improperly  omitted  to  write  them  down  in  his  pocket-book  —  cases, 
namely,  where  upon  passing  beyond  a  certain  point  in  the  graduation,  an  alteration 
takes  place  suddenly  in  the  kind  of  affect,  a  new  direction  is  given  to  the  power. 
Some  illustration  of  this  truth  occurs  in  conversation,  where  a  velocity  in  the  move- 
ment of  thought  is  made  possible  (and  often  natural),  greater  than  ever  can  arise 
in  methodical  books  ;  and  where,  secondly,  approximations  are  more  obvious  and 
easily  affected  between  things  too  remote  for  a  steadier  contemplation.  One 
remarkable  evidence  of  a  specific  power  lying  hid  in  conversation  may  be  seen  in 


ON    CONVERSATION.  183 

such  writings  as  have  moved  by  impulses  most  nearly  resembling  those  of  conver- 
sation ;  for  instance,  in  those  of  Edmund  Burke.  For  one  moment,  reader,  pause 
upon  the  spectacle  of  two  contrasted  intellects,  Burke's  and  Johnson's :  one  an 
intellect  essentially  going  forward,  governed  by  the  very  necessity  of  growth  —  by 
the  law  of  motion  in  advance  ;  the  latter,  essentially  an  intellect  retrogressive, 
retrospective,  and  throwing  itself  back  on  its  own  steps.  This  original  difference 
was  aided  accidentally  in  Burke  by  the  tendencies  of  political  partisanship,  which, 
both  from  moving  amongst  moving  things  and  uncertainties,  as  compared  with  the 
more  stationary  aspects  of  moral  philosophy,  and  also  from  its  more  fluctuating  and 
fiery  passions,  must  unavoidably  reflect  in  greater  life  the  tumultuary  character  of 
conversation.  The  result  from  these  original  differences  of  intellectual  constitu- 
tion, aided  by  these  secondary  differences  of  pursuit,  is,  that  Dr.  Johnson  never,  in 
any  instance,  grows  a  truth  before  your  eyes,  whilst  in  the  act  of  delivering  it,  or 
moving  toward  it.  All  that  he  offers  up  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  he  had  when  he 
began.  But  to  Burke,  such  was  the  prodigious  elasticity  of  his  thinking,  equally 
in  his  conversation  and  in  his  writings,  the  mere  act  of  movement  became  the  prin- 
ciple or  cause  of  movement.  Motion  propagated  motion,  and  life  threw  off  life. 
The  very  violence  of  a  projectile,  as  thrown  by  him,  caused  it  to  rebound  in  fresh 
forms,  fresh  angles,  splintering,  coruscating,  which  gave  out  thoughts  as  new  (and 
that  would  at  the  beginning  have  been  as  startling)  to  himself  as  they  are  to  his 
reader.  In  this  power,  which  might  be  illustrated  largely  from  the  writings  of 
Burke,  is  seen  something  allied  to  the  powers  of  a  prophetic  seer,  who  is  compelled 
oftentimes  into  seeing  things  as  unexpected  by  himself  as  by  others.  Now,  in 
conversation,  considered  as  to  its  tendencies  and  capacities,  there  sleeps  an  inter- 
mitting spring  of  such  sudden  revelation,  showing  much  of  the  same  general  char- 
acter ;  a  power  putting  on  a  character  essentially  differing  from  the  character  worn 
by  the  power  of  books. 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 


FOLLOWING  THE    LEADER. 


1 84  TOURISTS     ON    THE     CONTINENT. 


TOURISTS     ON     THE     CONTINENT. 

.  .  .  Three  weeks  of  London  were  more  than  enough  for  me,  and  I  feel  as  if 
I  had  had  enough  of  it  and  pleasure.  Then  I  remained  a  month  with  my  parents  ; 
then  I  brought  my  girls  on  a  little  pleasuring  tour.  We  spent  ten  days  at  Baden, 
when  I  set  intrepidly  to  work  again,  and  have  been  five  days  in  Switzerland  now ; 
not  bent  on  going  up  mountains,  but  on  taking  things  easily.  How  beautiful  it  is  ! 
How  pleasant !  How  great  and  affable,  too,  the  landscape  is  !  It's  delightful  to  be 
in  the  midst  of  such  scenes  ;  the  ideas  get  generous  reflections  from  them.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  my  thoughts  grow  mountainous  and  enormous  like  the  Alpine  chain 
yonder  ;  but  in  fine,  it  is  good  to  be  in  the  presence  of  this  noble  nature ;  it  is 
keeping  good  company ;  keeping  away  mean  thoughts.  I  see  in  the  papers,  now 
and  again,  accounts  of  fine  parties  in  London.  Bon  dieu  !  Is  it  possible  any  one 
ever  wanted  to  go  to  fine  London  parties  ;  and  are  there  now  people  sweating  in 
Mayfair  routs  ?  The  European  continent  swarms  with  your  people.  They  are 
not  all  as  polished  as  Chesterfield.  I  wish  some  of  them  spoke  French  a  little 
better.  I  saw  five  of  them  at  supper  at  Basle  the  other  night  with  their  knives 
down  their  throats.  It  was  awful.  My  daughter  saw  it  ;  and  I  was  obliged  to  say ; 
"  My  dear,  your  great-great-grandmother,  one  of  the  finest  ladies  of  the  old  school 
I  ever  saw,  always  applied  cold  steel  to  her  wittles.  It's  no  crime  to  eat  with  a 
knife  "  ;  which  is  all  very  well ;  but  I  wish  five  of  'em  at  a  time  wouldn't.  .  .  . 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


THE     MIRACLE     OF     NATURE. 

I  WILL  confess  to  you,  though,  that  in  those  first  heats  of  youth,  this  little 
England  —  or  rather  this  little  patch  of  moor  in  which  I  have  struck  roots  as  firm 
as  the  wild  fir-trees  do  —  looked  at  moments  rather  like  a  prison  than  a  palace  ;  that 
my  foolish  young  heart  would  sigh,  "O  !  that  I  had  wings  " —  not  as  a  dove,  to  fly 
home  to  its  nest  and  croodle  there  —  but  as  an  eagle,  to  swoop  away  over  land  and 
sea,  in  a  rampant  and  self-glorifying  fashion,  on  which  I  now  look  back  as  altogether 
unwholesome  and  undesirable.  But  the  thirst  for  adventure  and  excitement  was 
strong  in  me,  as  perhaps  it  ought  to  be  in  all  at  twenty-one.  Others  went  out  to 
see  the  glorious  new  worlds  of  the  West,  the  glorious  old  worlds  of  the  East  — 
why  should  not  I  ?  Others  rambled  over  Alps  and  Apennines,  Italian  picture- 
galleries  and  palaces,  filling  their  minds  with  fair  memories  —  why  should  not  I  ? 
Others  discovered  new  wonders  in  botany  and  zoology  —  why  should  not  I  ?  Others 
too,  like  you,  fulfilled  to  the  utmost  that  strange  lust  after  the  burra  shikar,  which 
even  now  makes  my  pulse  throb  as  often  as  I  see  the  stags'  heads  in  our  friend 


THE    MIRACLE     OF    NATURE. 


'85 


A 's  hall  —  why  should  not  I  ?     It  is  not  learned  in  a  day,  the  golden  lesson  of 

the  old  Collect,  to  "love  the  thing  which  is  commanded,  and  desire  that  which  is 
promised."  Not  in  a  day,  but  in  fifteen  years  one  can  spell  out  a  little  of  its  worth  ; 
and  when  one  finds  one's  self  on  the  wrong  side  of  forty,  and  the  first  gray  hairs 
begin  to  show  on  the  temples,  and  one  can  no  longer  jump  as  high  as  one's  third 
button  —  scarcely,  alas  !  to  any  button  at  all ;  and  what  with  innumerable  sprains, 
bruises,  soakings,  and  chillings, 
one's  lower  limbs  feel  in  a  cold 
thaw,  much  like  an  old  post-horse's, 
why,  one  makes  a  virtue  of  neces- 
sity ;  and  if  one  still  lusts  after 
sights,  takes  the  nearest,  and  looks 
for  wonders,  not  in  the  Himalayas 
or  Lake  Ngami,  but  in  the  turf 
on  the  lawn  and  the  brook  in  the 
park ;  and  with  good  Alphonse 
Karr  enjoys  the  macro-microcosm 
in  one  "  Tour  autour  de  man 
jardin." 

For  there  it  is,  friend,  the  whole 
infinite  miracle  of  nature  in  every 
tuft  of  grass,  if  we  have  only  eyes 
to  see  it,  and  can  disabuse  our 
minds  of  that  tyrannous  phantom 
of  size.  Only  recollect  that  great 
and  small  are  but  relative  terms  ; 
that,  in  truth,  nothing  is  great  or 
small,  save  in  proportion  to  the  quantity  of  creative  thought  which  has  been  exer- 
cised in  making  it  ;  that  the  fly  who  basks  upon  one  of  the  trilithons  of  Stonehenge, 
is  in  truth  infinitely  greater  than  all  Stonehenge  together,  though  he  may  measure 
the  tenth  of  an  inch,  and  the  stone  on  which  he  sits  five-and-twenty  feet.  You 
differ  from  me  ?  Be  it  so.  Even  if  you  prove  me  wrong  I  will  believe  myself  in 
the  right  :  I  cannot  afford  to  do  otherwise.  If  you  rob  me  of  my  faith  in  "  minute 
philosophy,"  you  rob  me  of  a  continual  source  of  content,  surprise,  delight. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


A    SIGHT   TO    MAKI 


5ES   THROB. 


186  MRS.     POT1PHAR' S    "  CABINE7"    SHOP." 


MRS.     POTIPHAR'S     "CABINET     SHOP." 

THE  furnishing  was  certainly  performed  with  great  splendor  and  expense.  My 
drawing-rooms  strongly  resembled  the  warehouse  of  an  ideal  cabinet-maker.  Every 
whim  of  table  —  every  caprice  of  chair  and  sofa,  is  satisfied  in  those  rooms.  There 
are  curtains  like  rainbows,  and  carpets,  as  if  the  curtains  had  dripped  all  over  the 
floor.  There  are  heavy  cabinets  of  carved  walnut,  such  as  belong  in  the  heavy 
wainscotted  rooms  of  old  palaces,  set  against  my  last  French  pattern  of  wall-paper. 
There  are  lofty  chairs,  like  the  thrones  of  archbishops  in  Gothic  cathedrals,  stand- 
ing by  the  side  of  the  elaborately  gilded  frames  of  mirrors.  Marble  statues  of 
Venus  and  Apollo  support  my  mantels,  upon  which  ormolu  Louis  Quatorze  clocks 
ring  the  hours.  In  all  possible  places  there  are  statues,  statuettes,  vases,  plates, 
teacups,  and  liquor  vases.  The  wood-work,  when  white,  is  elaborated  in  Moresco 
carving — when  oak  and  walnut,  it  is  heavily  moulded.  The  contrasts  are  pretty, 
but  rather  sudden.  In  truth,  my  house  is  a  huge  curiosity-shop  of  valuable  articles 
—  clustered  without  taste,  or  feeling,  or  reason.  They  are  there,  because  my  house 
was  large  and  I  was  able  to  buy  them  ;  and  because,  as  Mrs.  P.  says,  one  must  have 
a  buhl  and  ormolu,  and  new  forms  of  furniture,  and  do  as  well  as  one's  neighbors, 
and  show  that  one  is  rich,  if  he  is  so.  They  are  there,  in  fact,  because  I  couldn't 
help  it.  I  didn't  want  them,  but  then  I  don't  know  what  I  did  want.  Somehow,  I 
don't  feel  as  if  I  had  a  home,  merely  because  orders  were  given  to  the  best  uphol- 
sterers and  fancy-men  in  town  to  send  a  sample  of  all  their  wares  to  my  house.  To 
pay  a  morning  call  at  Mrs.  Potiphar's  is,  in  some  ways,  better  than  going  shopping. 
You  see  more  new  and  costly  things  in  a  shorter  time.  People  say,  "  What  a  love 
of  a  chair  !  "  "  What  a  darling  table  !  "  "  What  a  heavenly  sofa  !  "  and  they  all 
go  and  tease  their  husbands  to  get  things  precisely  like  them.  When  Kurz  Pacha, 
the  Sennaar  minister,  came  to  a  dinner  at  my  house,  he  said  : 

"  Bless  my  soul  !  Mr.  Potiphar,  your  house  is  just  like  your  neighbor's." 

I  know  it.  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  there  is  no  more  difference  between  my 
house  and  Croesus's,  than  there  is  in  two  ten-dollar  bills  of  the  same  bank.  He 
might  live  in  my  house  and  I  in  his  without  any  confusion.  He  has  the  same  cur- 
tains, carpets,  chairs,  tables,  Venuses,  Apollos,  busts,  vases,  etc.  And  he  goes  into 
his  room  and  thinks  it's  all  a  devilish  bore,  just  as  I  do.  We  have  each  got  to 
refurnish  every  few  years,  and,  therefore,  have  no  possible  opportunity  for  attaching 
ourselves  to  the  objects  about  us.  Unfortunately  Kurz  Pacha  particularly  detested 
precisely  what  Mrs.  P.  most  liked,  because  it  is  the  fashion  to  like  them.  I  mean 
the  Louis  Quatorze  and  the  Louis  Quinze  things. 

"  Taste,  dear  Mrs.  Potiphar,"  said  the  Pacha,  "  was  a  thing  not  known  in  the 
days  of  those  kings.  Grace  was  entirely  supplanted  by  grotesqueness,  and  now, 
instead  of  pure  and  beautiful  Greek  forms,  we  must  collect  these  hideous  things. 
If  you  are  going  backward  to  find  models,  why  not  go  as  far  as  the  good  ones  ? 
My  dear  madam,  an  ormolu  Louis  Quatorze  clock  would  have  given  Pericles  a  fit. 


MRS.     FOTIPHAR'S    "  CABINET    SHOP." 


187 


Your  drawing-rooms  would  have  thrown  Aspasia  into  hysterics.  Things  are  not 
beautiful  because  they  cost  money  ;  nor  is  any  grouping  handsome  without  har- 
mony. Your  house  is  like  a  woman  dressed  in  Ninon  de  1'Enclos's  bodice,  with 
Queen  Anne's  hooped  skirt,  who  limps  in  Chinese  shoes,  and  wears  an  Elizabethan 
ruff  around  her  neck,  and  a  Druse's  horn  on  her  head.  My  dear  madam,  this  is 
the  kind  of  thing  we  go  to  see  in  museums.  It  is  the  old  stock  joke  of  the 
world." 

By  Jove !  how  mad  Mrs.  Potiphar  was  !  She  rose  from  the  table,  to  the  great 
dismay  of  Kurz  Pacha,  and  I  could  only  restrain  her  by  reminding  her  that  the 
Sennaar  minister  had  but  an  imperfect  idea  of  our  language,  and  that  in  Sennaar 
people  probably  said  what  they  thought  when  they  conversed. 

"  You'd  better  go  to  Sennaar  then,  yourself,  Mr.  Potiphar,"  said  my  wife,  as 
she  smoothed  her  rumpled  feathers. 

"  Ton  my  word,  madam,  it's  my  own  opinion,"  replied  I. 

Kurz  Pacha,  who  is  a  philosopher  (of  the  Sennaar  school),  asks  me  if  people 
have  no  ideas  of.  their  own  in  building  houses.  I  answer,  none  that  I  know  of, 
except  that  of  getting  the  house  built.  The 
fact  is,  it  is  as  much  as  Paul  Potiphar  can 
do  to  make  the  money  to  erect  his  palatial 
residence,  and  then  to  keep  it  going.  There 
are  a  great  many  fine  statues  in  my  house, 
but  I  know  nothing  about  them  ;  I  don't 
see  why  we  should  have  such  heathen  im- 
ages in  reputable  houses.  But  Mrs.  P. 
says  : 

"  Pooh  !  have  you  no  love  for  the  fine 
arts  ? " 

There  it  is  !  It  doesn't  do  not  to  love 
the  fine  arts  ;  so  Polly  is  continually  clatter- 
ing up  the  halls  and  staircases  with  marble, 
and  sending  me  heavy  bills  for  the  same. 

When  the  house  was  ready,  and  my 
wife  had  purchased  the  furniture,  she  came 
and  said  to  me  : 

"  Now,  my  dear  P.,  there  is  one  thing 
we  haven't  thought,  of." 

"  What's  that  ? " 

"Pictures,  you  know,  dear." 

"  What  do  you  want  pictures  for? "  growled  I,  and  rather  surlily,  I  am  afraid. 

"  Why,  to  furnish  the  walls  ;  what  do  you  suppose  we  want  pictures  for  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  Polly,"  said  I,  "  that  pictures  are  the  most  extravagant  kind  of 
furniture.  Pshaw  !  a  man  rubs  and  dabbles  a  little  upon  a  canvas  two  feet  square, 
and  then  coolly  asks  three  hundred  dollars  for  it." 

"  Dear  me,  Pot,"  she  answered,  "  I  don't  want  home-made  pictures.     What  an 


GUESTS   OF  THE    POTIPHARS. 


i88  MRS.     POTIPHAR'S    "  CABINET    SHOP." 

idea!  Do  you  think  I'd  have  pictures  on  my  walls  that  were  painted  in  this 
country  ?  —  No,  my  dear  husband,  let  us  have  some  choice  specimens  of  the  old 
masters.  A  landscape  by  Rayfel,  for  instance  ;  or  one  of  Angel's  fruit-pieces,  or 
a  cattle  scene  by  Veryness,  or  a  Madonna  of  Giddo's,  or  a  boar-hunt  of  Hannibal 
Crackeye's." 

What  was  the  use  of  fighting  against  this  sort  of  thing  ?  I  told  her  to  have  it 
her  own  way.  Mrs.  P.  consulted  Singe,  the  pastry-cook,  who  told  her  his  cousin 
had  just  come  out  from  Italy  with  a  lot  of  the  very  finest  pictures  in  the  world, 
which  he  had  bribed  one  of  the  Pope's  guard  to  steal  from  the  Vatican,  and  which 
he  would  sell  at  a  bargain. 

They  hang  on  my  walls,  now.  They  represent  nothing  in  particular  ;  but  in 
certain  lights,  if  you  look  very  closely,  you  can  easily  recognize  something  in  them 
that  looks  like  a  lump  of  something  brown.  There  is  one  very  ugly  woman  with  a 
convulsive  child  in  her  arms,  to  which  Mrs.  P.  directly  takes  all  her  visitors,  and 
asks  them  to  admire  the  beautiful  Shay  douver  of  Giddo's.  When  I  go  out  to 
dinner  with  people  that  talk  of  pictures  and  books,  and  that  kind  of  thing,  I  don't 
like  to  seem  behind ;  so  I  say,  in  a  critical  way,  that  Giddo  was  a  good  painter. 
None  of  them  contradict  me,  and  one  day  when  somebody  asked  :  "Which  of  his 
pictures  do  you  prefer  ?  "  I  answered  straight,  "  His  Shay  douver,"  and  no  more 
questions  were  asked. 

They  hang  all  about  the  house  now.  The  Giddo  is  in  the  dining-room.  I 
asked  the  Sennaar  minister  if  it  wasn't  odd  to  have  a  religious  picture  in  the  dining- 
room.  He  smiled,  and  said  that  it  was  perfectly  proper  if  I  liked  it,  and  if  the 
picture  of  such  an  ugly  woman  didn't  take  away  my  appetite. 

"What  difference  does  it  make,"  said  he,  in  the  Sennaar  manner;  "  it  would 
be  equally  out  of  keeping  with  every  other  room  in  your  house.  My  dear  Potiphar, 
it  is  a  perfectly  unprincipled  house,  this  of  yours.  If  your  mind  were  in  the  con- 
dition of  your  house,  so  ill-assorted,  so  confused,  so  over-loaded  with  things  that 
don't  belong  together,  you  would  never  make  another  cent.  You  have  order,  pro- 
priety, harmony,  in  your  dealings  with  the  Symmes's  Hole  Bore  Co.,  and  they  are 
the  secrets  of  your  success.  W7hy  not  have  the  same  elements  in  your  house  ? 
Why  pitch  every  century,  country,  and  fashion,  higgledy-piggledy  into  your  parlors 
and  dining-rooms  ?  Have  everything  you  can  get,  in  heaven's  name,  but  have 
everything  in  its  place.  If  you  are  a  plodding  tradesman,  knowing  and  caring 
nothing  about  pictures,  or  books,  or  statuary,  or  objets  de  vertu,  don't  have  them. 
Suppose  your  neighbor  chooses  to  put  them  in  his  house.  If  he  has  them  merely 
because  he  had  the  money  to  pay  for  them,  he  is  the  butt  of  every  picture  and 
book  he  owns. 

"  When  I  meet  Mr.  Crcesus  in  Wall  Street,  I  respect  him  as  I  do  a  king  in  his 
palace,  or  a  scholar  in  his  study.  He  is  master  of  the  occasion.  He  commands 
like  Nelson  at  the  Nile.  I,  who  am  merely  a  diplomatist,  skulk  and  hurry  along, 
and  if  Mr.  Croesus  smiles,  I  inwardly  thank  him  for  his  charity.  Wall  Street  is 
Crcesus'  sphere,  and  all  his  powers  play  there  perfectly.  But  when  I  meet  him  in 
his  house,  surrounded  by  objects  of  art,  by  the  triumphs  of  a  skill  which  he  does 


AN    APPEAL     FOR     UNION.  189 

not  understand,  and  for  which  he  cares  nothing, — of  which,  in  fact,  he  seems 
afraid,  because  he  knows  any  chance  question  about  them  would  trip  him  up,  —  my 
feeling  is  very  much  changed.  If  I  should  ask  him  what  ormolu  is,  I  don't  believe 
he  could  answer,  though  his  splendid  ormolu  clock  rang,  indignant,  from  the 
mantel.  But  if  I  should  say  :  '  Invest  me  this  thousand  dollars,'  he  would  secure 
me  eight  per  cent.  It  certainly  isn't  necessary  to  know  what  ormolu  is,  nor  to 
have  any  other  objet  de  vertu  but  your  wife.  Then  why  should  you  barricade  your- 
self behind  all  these  things  that  you  really  cannot  enjoy,  because  you  don't  under- 
stand ?  If  you  could  not  read  Italian,  you  would  be  a  fool  to  buy  Dante,  merely 
because  you  knew  he  was  a  great  poet.  And,  in  the  same  way,  if  you  know  noth- 
ing about  matters  of  art,  it  is  equally  foolish  of  you  to  buy  statues  and  pictures, 
although  you  hear  on  all  sides  that,  as  Mrs.  P.  says,  one  must  love  art. 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 


AN     APPEAL     FOR     UNION. 

NOT  the  reception  of  the  treaty  of  peace  negotiated  at  Ghent,  nor  any  other 
event  which  has  occurred  during  my  progress  in  public  life,  ever  gave  such  un- 
bounded and  universal  satisfaction  as  the  settlement  of  the  Missouri  Compromise. 
We  may  argue  from  like  causes  like  effects.  Then,  indeed,  there  was  great  excite- 
ment. Then,  indeed,  all  the  legislatures  of  the  North  called  out  for  the  exclusion 
of  Missouri,  and  all  the  legislatures  of  the  South  called  out  for  her  admission  as  a 
State.  Then,  as  now,  the  country  was  agitated  like  the  ocean  in  the  midst  of  a 
turbulent  storm.  But  now,  more  than  then,  has  this  agitation  been  increased. 
Now,  more  than  then,  are  the  dangers  which  exist,  if  the  controversy  remains  un- 
settled, more  aggravated  and  more  to  be  dreaded.  The  idea  of  disunion  was  then 
scarcely  a  low  whisper.  Now,  it  has  become  a  familiar  language  in  certain  portions 
of  the  country.  The  public  mind  and  the  public  heart  are  becoming  familiarized 
with  that  most  dangerous  and  fatal  of  all  events  —  the  disunion  of  the  States. 
People  begin  to  contend  that  this  is  not  so  bad  a  thing  as  they  had  supposed.  Like 
the  progress  in  all  human  affairs,  as  we  approach  danger  it  disappears,  it  dimin- 
ishes in  our  conception,  and  we  no  longer  regard  it  with  that  awful  apprehension 
of  consequences  that  we  did  before  we  came  into  contact  with  it.  Everywhere  now 
there  is  a  state  of  things,  a  degree  of  alarm  and  apprehension,  and  determination  to 
fight,  as  they  regard  it,  against  the  aggressions  of  the  North.  That  did  not  so 
demonstrate  itself  at  the  period  of  the  Missouri  Compromise.  It  was  followed,  in 
consequence  of  the  adoption  of  the  measure  which  settled  the  difficulty  of  Missouri, 
by  peace,  harmony,  and  tranquillity.  So,  now,  I  infer,  from  the  greater  amount 
of  agitation,  from  the  greater  amount  of  danger,  that,  if  you  adopt  the  meas- 
ures under  consideration,  they,  too,  will  be  followed  by  the  same  amount  of 


i9o  AN    APPEAL     FOR     UNION. 

contentment,  satisfaction,  peace,  and  tranquillity,  which  ensued  after  the  Missouri 
Compromise. 

The  responsibility  of  this  great  measure  passes  from  the  hands  of  the  committee, 
and  from  my  hands.  They  know,  and  I  know,  that  it  is  an  awful  and  tremendous 
responsibility.  I  hope  that  you  will  meet  it  with  a  just  conception  and  a  true 
appreciation  of  its  magnitude,  and  the  magnitude  of  the  consequences  that  may 
ensue  from  your  decision  one  way  or  the  other.  The  alternatives,  I  fear,  which  the 
measure  presents,  are  concord  and  increased  discord  ;  a  servile  civil  war,  originating 
in  its  causes  on  the  lower  Rio  Grande,  and  terminating  possibly  in  its  consequences 
on  the  upper  Rio  Grande  in  the  Santa  Fe  country,  or  the  restoration  of  harmony 
and  fraternal  kindness.  I  believe  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul  that  the  measure  is 
the  reunion  of  this  Union.  I  believe  it  is  the  dove  of  peace,  which,  taking  its 
aerial  flight  from  the  dome  of  the  Capitol,  carries  the  glad  tidings  of  assured  peace 
and  restored  harmony  to  all  the  remotest  extremities  of  this  distracted  land.  I 
believe  that  it  will  be  attended  with  all  these  beneficent  effects.  And  now  let  us 
discard  all  resentment,  all  passions,  all  petty  jealousies,  all  personal  desires,  all  love 
of  place,  all  hankerings  after  the  gilded  crumbs  which  fall  from  the  table  of  power. 
Let  us  forget  popular  fears,  from  whatever  quarter  they  may  spring.  Let  us  go  to 
the  limpid  fountain  of  unadulterated  patriotism,  and,  performing  a  solemn  lustra- 
tion, return  divested  of  all  selfish,  sinister,  and  sordid  impurities,  and  think  alone  of 
our  God,  our  country,  our  consciences,  and  our  glorious  Union —  that  Union  with- 
out which  we  shall  be  torn  into  hostile  fragments,  and  sooner  or  later  become  the 
victims  of  military  despotism,  or  foreign  domination. 

Mr.  President,  what  is  an  individual  man  ?  An  atom,  almost  invisible  without 
a  magnifying  glass  —  a  mere  speck  upon  the  surface  of  the  immense  universe  ;  not 
a  second  in  time,  compared  to  immeasurable,  never-beginning,  and  never-ending 
eternity  ;  a  drop  of  water  in  the  great  deep,  which  evaporates  and  is  borne  off  by 
the  winds  ;  a  grain  of  sand,  which  is  soon  gathered  to  the  dust  from  which  it  sprung. 
Shall  a  being  so  small,  so  petty,  so  fleeting,  so  evanescent,  oppose  itself  to  the 
onward  march  of  a  great  nation,  which  is  to  subsist  for  ages  and  ages  to  come  ; 
oppose  itself  to  that  long  line  of  posterity  which,  issuing  from  our  loins,  will  endure 
during  the  existence  of  the  world  ?  Forbid  it,  God.  Let  us  look  to  our  country 
and  our  cause,  elevate  ourselves  to  the  dignity  of  pure  and  disinterested  patriots, 
and  save  our  country  from  all  impending  dangers.  What  if,  in  the  march  of  this 
nation  to  greatness  and  power,  we  should  be  buried  beneath  the  wheels  that  propel 
it  onward !  What  are  we  —  what  is  any  man  —  worth  who  is  not  ready  and  willing 
to  sacrifice  himself  for  the  benefit  of  his  country  when  it  is  necessary  ?  .  .  . 

If  this  Union  shall  become  separated,  new  unions,  new  confederacies  will  arise. 
And  with  respect  to  this,  if  there  be  any  —  I  hope  there  is  no  one  in  the  Senate  — 
before  whose  imagination  is  flitting  the  idea  of  a  great  Southern  Confederacy  to 
take  possession  of  the  Balize  and  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi,  I  say  in  my  place, 
never  !  never  !  never  !  will  we  who  occupy  the  broad  waters  of  the  Mississippi  and 
its  upper  tributaries  consent  that  any  foreign  flag  shall  float  at  the  Balize  or  upon 
the  turrets  of  the  Crescent  City  —  never!  never!  I  call  upon  all  the  South. 


JUSTICE    FOR     THE     SLA  VE.  191 

Sir,  we  have  had  hard  words,  bitter  words,  bitter  thoughts,  unpleasant  feelings 
toward  each  other  in  the  progress  of  this  great  measure.  Let  us  forget  them.  Let 
us  sacrifice  these  feelings.  Let  us  go  to  the  altar  of  our  country  and  swear,  as  the 
oath  was  taken  of  old,  that  we  will  stand  by  her  ;  that  we  will  support  her ;  that 
we  will  uphold  her  Constitution  ;  that  we  will  preserve  her  Union  ;  and  that  we  will 
pass  this  great,  comprehensive,  and  healing  system  of  measures,  which  will  hush 
all  the  jarring  elements,  and  bring  peace  and  tranquillity  to  our  homes. 

HENRY  CLAY. 


JUSTICE     FOR     THE     SLAVE. 

WE  do  not  play  politics,  anti-slavery  is  no  half-jest  with  us  ;  it  is  a  terrible 
earnest,  with  life  or  death,  worse  than  life  or  death,  on  the  issue.  It  is  no  lawsuit, 
where  it  matters  not  to  the  good  feeling  of  opposing  counsel  which  way  the  verdict 
goes,  and  where  advocates  can  shake  hands  after  the  decision  as  pleasantly  as 
before.  When  we  think  of  such  a  man  as  Henry  Clay,  his  long  life,  his  mighty 
influence  cast  always  into  the  scale  against  the  slave,  of  that  irresistible  fascina- 
tion with  which  he  moulded  every  one  to  his  will ;  when  we  remember  that,  his 
conscience  acknowledging  the  justice  of  our  cause,  and  his  heart  open  on  every 
other  side  to  the  gentlest  impulses,  he  could  sacrifice  so  remorselessly  his  convic- 
tions and  the  welfare  of  millions  to  his  low  ambition  ;  when  we  think  how  the  slave 
trembled  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  that,  from  a  multitude  of  breaking  hearts 
there  went  up  nothing  but  gratitude  to  God  when  it  pleased  him  to  call  that  great 
sinner  from  this  world,  we  cannot  find  it  in  our  hearts,  we  could  not  shape  our  lips 
to  ask  any  man  to  do  him  honor.  No  amount  of  eloquence,  no  sheen  of  official 
position,  no  loud  grief  of  partisan  friends,  would  ever  lead  us  to  ask  monuments 
or  walk  in  fine  processions  for  pirates ;  and  the  sectarian  zeal  or  selfish  ambition 
which  gives  up,  deliberately  and  in  full  knowledge  of  the  facts,  three  million  of 
human  beings,  to  hopeless  ignorance,  daily  robbery,  systematic  prostitution,  and 
murder,  which  the  law  is  neither  able  nor  undertakes  to  prevent  or  avenge,  is  more 
monstrous,  in  our  eyes,  than  the  love  of  gold  which  takes  a  score  of  lives  with 
merciful  quickness  on  the  high  seas.  Haynau  on  the  Danube  is  no  more  hateful 
to  us  than  Haynau  on  the  Potomac.  Why  give  mobs  to  one  and  monuments  to 
the  other  ? 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 


192 


RALEIGH'S    LAST     WORDS     TO    HIS     WIFE. 


RALEIGH'S     LAST     WORDS     TO     HIS     WIFE. 


You  shall  receive,  my  dear  wife,  my  last  words  in  these  my  last  lines ;  my  love 
I  send  you,  that  you  may  keep  when  I  am  dead,  and  my  counsel,  that  you  may  re- 
member it  when  I  am  no  more.  I  would  not  with  my  will  present  you  sorrows, 
dear  Bess ;  let  them  go  to  the  grave  with  me,  and  be  buried  in  the  dust.  And  see- 
ing that  it  is  not  the  will  of  God  that  I  shall  see  you  any  more,  bear  my  destruction 
patiently,  and  with  an  heart  like  yourself. 

First,  I  send  you  all  the  thanks  which  my  heart  can  conceive,  or  my  words 
express,  for  your  many  travails  and  cares  for  me  ;  which  though  they  have  not 
taken  effect  as  you  wished,  yet  my  debt  to  you  is  not  the  less  ;  but  pay  it  I  never 
shall  in  this  world. 

Secondly,  I  beseech  you,  for  the  love  you  bare  me  living,  that  you  do  not  hide 
yourself  many  days,  but  by  your  travails  seek  to  help  the  miserable  fortunes  and 

the  right  of  your  poor  child.  Your 
mourning  cannot  avail  me  that  am 
but  dust. 

Thirdly,  you  shall  understand,  that 
my  lands  were  conveyed  bona  fide  to 
my  child ;  the  writings  were  drawn 
at  midsummer  was  twelve  months,  as 
divers  can  witness ;  and  I  trust  my 
blood  will  quench  their  malice  who 
desired  my  slaughter,  that  they  will 
not  seek  also  to  kill  you  and  yours 
with  extreme  poverty.  To  what  friend 
to  direct  you  I  know  not,  for  all  mine 
have  left  me  in  the  true  time  of  trial. 
Most  sorry  am  I,  that,  being  thus  sur- 
prised by  death,  I  can  leave  you  no 
better  estate  ;  God  hath  prevented  all 
my  determinations,  — that  great  God 
which  worketh  all  in  all  ;  and  if  you 
can  live  free  from  want,  care  for  no 
more,  for  the  rest  is  but  a  vanity  :  love 
God,  and  begin  betimes  —  in  him  you 
shall  find  true,  everlasting,  and  end- 
less comfort ;  when  you  have  travailed  and  wearied  yourself  with  all  sorts  of 
worldly  cogitations,  you  shall  sit  down  by  sorrow  in  the  end.  Teach  your  son 
also  to  serve  and  fear  God  whilst  he  is  young,  that  the  fear  of  God  may  grow  up  in 
him  ;  then  will  God  be  an  husband  to  you,  and  a  father  to  him  —  an  husband  and 
a  father  that  can  never  be  taken  from  you. 


SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH. 


DEATH,     THE     CONQUEROR.  193 

Baylie  oweth  me  a  thousand  pounds,  and  Aryan  six  hundred  ;  in  Jernesey  also, 
I  have  much  owing  me.  Dear  wife,  I  beseech  you,  for  my  soul's  sake,  pay  all  poor 
men.  When  I  am  dead,  no  doubt  you  shall  be  much  sought  unto,  for  the  world 
thinks  I  was  very  rich  :  have  a  care  to  the  fair  pretences  of  men,  for  no  greater 
misery  can  befall  you  in  this  life,  than  to  become  a  prey  unto  the  world,  and  after 
to  be  despised.  I  speak  (God  knows)  not  to  dissuade  you  from  marriage,  for  it  will 
be  best  for  you,  both  in  respect  of  God  and  the  world.  As  for  me,  I  am  no  more 
yours,  nor  you  mine ;  death  hath  cut  us  asunder,  and  God  hath  divided  me  from 
the  world,  and  you  from  me.  Remember  your  poor  child  for  his  father's  sake,  who 
loved  you  in  his  happiest  estate.  I  sued  for  my  life,  but  God  knows  it  was  for  you 
and  yours  that  I  desired  it :  for  know  it,  my  dear  wife,  your  child  is  the  child  of  a 
true  man,  who  in  his  own  respect  despiseth  death  and  his  misshapen  and  ugly 
forms.  I  cannot  write  much  ;  God  knows  how  hardly  I  steal  this  time  when  all 
sleep  ;  and  it  is  also  time  for  me  to  separate  my  thoughts  from  the  world.  Beg  my 
dead  body,  which  living  was  denied  you,  and  either  lay  it  in  Sherbourne,  or  Exeter 
church  by  my  father  and  mother.  I  can  say  no  more  ;  time  and  death  call  me 
away.  The  everlasting  God,  powerful,  infinite,  and  inscrutable  God  Almighty,  who 
is  goodness  itself,  the  true  light  and  life,  keep  you  and  yours,  and  have  mercy  upon 
me,  and  forgive  my  persecutors  and  false  accusers,  and  send  us  to  meet  in  his 
glorious  kingdom.  My  clear  wife,  farewell ;  bless  my  boy,  pray  for  me,  and  let  my 
true  God  hold  you  both  in  his  arms. 

Yours  that  was,  but  now  not  mine  own, 

WALTER  RALEIGH. 


DEATH,     THE     CONQUEROR. 

IT  is  a  mighty  change  that  is  made  by  the  death  of  every  person,  and  it  is 
visible  to  us  who  are  alive.  Reckon  but  from  the  sprightfulness  of  youth  and  the 
fair  cheeks  and  full  eyes  of  childhood,  from  the  vigorousness  and  strong  flexure  of 
the  joints  of  five-and-twenty,  to  the  hollowness  and  dead  paleness,  to  the  loath- 
someness and  horror  of  a  three  days'  burial,  and  we  shall  perceive  the  distance  to 
be  very  great  and  very  strange.  But  so  have  I  seen  a  rose  newly  springing  from 
the  clefts  of  its  hood,  and  at  first  it  was  fair  as  the  morning,  and  full  with  the  dew 
of  heaven,  as  the  lamb's  fleece  ;  but  when  the  ruder  breath  had  forced  open  its 
virgin  modesty,  and  dismantled  its  too  youthful  and  unripe  retirements,  it  began  to 
put  on  darkness  and  to  decline  to  softness  and  the  symptoms  of  a  sickly  age  ;  it 
bowed  the  head  and  broke  its  stalk,  and  at  night,  having  lost  some  of  its  leaves, 
and  all  its  beauty,  it  fell  into  the  portion  of  weeds  and  out-worn  faces.  So  does 
the  fairest  beauty  change,  and  it  will  be  as  bad  with  you  and  me ;  and  then  what 
servants  shall  we  have  to  wait  upon  us  in  the  grave  ?  What  friends  to  visit  us  ? 


i94  DEATH,     THE     CONQUEROR. 

What  officious  people  to  cleanse  away  the  moist  and  unwholesome  clouds  reflected 
upon  our  faces  from  the  sides  of  the  weeping  vaults,  which  are  the  longest  weepers 
for  our  funerals  ? 

A  man  may  read  a  sermon,  the  best  and  most  passionate  that  ever  man  preached, 
if  he  shall  but  enter  into  the  sepulchers  of  kings.  In  the  same  Escurial  where  the 
Spanish  princes  live  in  greatness  and  power,  and  decree  war  or  peace,  they  have 
wisely  placed  a  cemetery  where  their  ashes  and  their  glory  shall  sleep  till  time  shall 
be  no  more  :  and  where  our  kings  have  been  crowned,  their  ancestors  lie  interred, 
and  they  must  walk  over  their  grandsire's  head  to  take  his  crown.  There  is  an 
acre  sown  with  royal  seed,  the  copy  of  the  greatest  change  from  rich  to  naked, 
from  ceiled  roofs  to  arched  coffins,  from  living  like  gods  to  die  like  men.  There  is 
enough  to  cool  the  flames  of  lust,  to  abate  the  heights  of  pride,  to  appease  the  itch 
of  covetous  desires,  to  sully  and  dash  out  the  dissembling  colors  of  a  lustful,  arti- 
ficial, and  imaginary  beauty.  There  the  warlike  and  the  peaceful,  the  fortunate 
and  the  miserable,  the  beloved  and  the  despised  princes,  mingle  their  dust,  and  pay 
down  their  symbol  of  mortality,  and  tell  all  the  world  that  when  we  die,  our  ashes 
shall  be  equal  to  kings,  and  our  accounts  easier,  and  our  pains  for  our  crimes  shall 
be  less.  To  my  apprehension,  it  is  a  sad  record  which  is  left  by  Athenaeus  con- 
cerning Minus  the  great  Assyrian  monarch,  whose  life  and  death  is  summed  up  in 
these  words  :  "  Ninus,  the  Assyrian  had  an  ocean  of  gold,  and  other  riches  more 
than  the  sand  in  the  Caspian  Sea ;  he  never  saw  the  stars,  and  perhaps  he  never 
desired  it  ;  he  never  stirred  up  the  holy  fire  among  the  Magi,  nor  touched  his  god 
with  the  sacred  rod,  according  to  the  laws :  he  never  offered  sacrifice,  nor  wor- 
shipped the  deity,  nor  administered  justice,  nor  spake  to  the  people ;  nor  numbered 
them ;  but  he  was  most  valiant  to  eat  and  drink,  and  having  mingled  his  wines,  he 
threw  the  rest  upon  the  stones.  This  man  is  dead,  behold  his  sepulcher,  and  now 
hear  where  Ninus  is.  Sometime  I  was  Ninus,  and  drew  the  breath  of  a  living  man, 
but  now  am  nothing  but  clay.  I  have  nothing  but  what  I  did  eat,  and  what  I  served 
to  myself  in  lust  is  all  my  portion :  the  wealth  with  which  I  was  blessed,  my 
enemies  meeting  together  shall  carry  away,  as  the  mad  Thyades  carry  a  raw  goat. 
I  am  gone  to  hell :  and  when  I  went  thither,  I  neither  carried  gold,  nor  horse,  nor 
silver  chariot.  I,  that  wore  a  mitre,  am  now  a  little  heap  of  dust." 

JEREMY  TAYLOR. 


GREATNESS    AND     ABILITY.  195 


GREATNESS     AND     ABILITY. 

IN  general,  greatness  is  eminence  of  ability  ;  so  there  are  as  many  different 
forms  thereof  as  there  are  qualities  wherein  a  man  may  be  eminent.  These  various 
forms  of  greatness  should  be  distinctly  marked,  that,  when  we  say  a  man  is  great, 
we  may  know  exactly  what  we  mean. 

In  the  rudest  ages,  when  the  body  is  man's  only  tool  for  work  or  war,  eminent 
strength  of  body  is  the  thing  most  coveted.  Then,  and  so  long  as  human  affairs 
are  controlled  by  brute  force,  the  giant  is  thought  to  be  the  great  man,  —  is  had  in 
honor  for  his  eminent  brute  strength. 

When  men  have  a  little  outgrown  that  period  of  force,  cunning  is  the  quality 
most  prized.  The  nimble  brain  outwits  the  heavy  arm,  and  brings  the  circumvented 
giant  to  the  ground.  He  who  can  overreach  his  antagonist,  plotting  more  subtly, 
winning  with  more  deceitful  skill ;  who  can  turn  and  double  on  his  unseen  track, 
"  can  smile  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain,  "  —  he  is  a  great  man. 

Brute  force  is  merely  animal ;  cunning  is  the  animalism  of  the  intellect,  —  the 
mind's  least  intellectual  element. 

As  men  go  on  in  their  development,  finding  qualities  more  valuable  than  the 
strength  of  the  lion  or  the  subtlety  of  the  fox,  they  come  to  value  higher  intellect- 
ual faculties,  —  great  understanding,  great  imagination,  great  reason.  Power  to 
think  is  then  the  faculty  men  value  most;  ability  to  devise  means  for  attaining  ends 
desired  ;  the  power  to  originate  ideas,  to  express  them  in  speech,  to  organize  them 
into  institutions;  to  organize  things  into  a  machine,  men  into  an  army  or  a  state, 
or  a  gang  of  operatives  ;  to  administer  these  various  organizations.  He  who  is  emi- 
nent in  this  ability  is  thought  the  great  man. 

But  there  are  qualities  nobler  than  the  mere  intellect,  —  the  moral,  the  affec- 
tional,  the  religious  faculties,  —  the  power  of  justice,  of  love,  of  holiness,  of  trust 
in  God,  and  of  obedience  to  his  law,  —  the  eternal  right.  These  are  the  highest 
qualities  of  man  :  whoso  is  most  eminent  therein  is  the  greatest  of  great  men.  He 
is  as  much  above  the  merely  intellectual  great  men,  as  they  above  the  men  of  mere 
cunning  or  force. 

Thus,  then,  we  have  four  different  kinds  of  greatness.  Let  me  name  them 
bodily  greatness,  crafty  greatness,  intellectual  greatness,  religious  greatness.  Men  in 
different  degrees  of  development  will  value  the  different  kinds  of  greatness.  Belial 
cannot  yet  honor  Christ.  How  can  the  little  girl  appreciate  Aristotle  and  Kant  ? 
The  child  thinks  as  a  child.  You  must  have  manhood  in  you  to  honor  it  in  others, 
even  to  see  it. 

Yet  how  we  love  to  honor  men  eminent  in  such  modes  of  greatness  as  we  can 
understand  !  Indeed,  we  must  do  so.  Soon  as  we  really  see  a  real  great  man,  his 
magnetism  draws  us,  will  we  or  no.  Do  any  of  you  remember  when,  for  the  first 
time  in  adult  years,  you  stood  beside  the  ocean,  or  some  great  mountain  of  New 
Hampshire,  or  Virginia,  or  Pennsylvania,  or  the  mighty  mounts  that  rise  in  Switzer- 


196  GREATNESS    AND    ABILITY. 

land  ?  Do  you  remember  what  emotions  came  upon  you  at  the  awful  presence  ? 
But  if  you  are  confronted  by  a  man  of  vast  genius,  of  colossal  history  and  achieve- 
ments, immense  personal  power  of  wisdom,  justice,  philanthropy,  religion,  of  mighty 
power  of  will  and  mighty  act ;  if  you  feel  him  as  you  feel  the  mountain  and  the  sea, 
what  grander  emotions  spring  up  !  It  is  like  making  the  acquaintance  of  one  of 
the  elementary  forces  of  the  earth,  — like  associating  with  gravitation  itself  !  The 
stiffest  neck  bends  over;  down  go  the  democratic  knees;  human  nature  is  loyal 
then  !  A  New-England  shipmaster,  wrecked  on  an  island  in  the  Indian  Sea,  was 
seized  by  his  conquerors,  and  made  their  chief.  Their  captive  became  their  king. 
After  years  of  rule,  he  managed  to  escape.  When  he  once  more  visited  his  former 
realm,  he  found  that  the  savages  had  carried  him  to  heaven,  and  worshipped  him 
as  a  god  greater  than  their  fancied  deities  :  he  had  revolutionized  divinity,  and  was 
himself  enthroned  as  a  god.  Why  so  ?  In  intellectual  qualities,  in  religious  quali- 
ties, he  was  superior  to  their  idea  of  God,  and  so  they  worshipped  him.  Thus  loyal 
is  human  nature  to  its  great  men. 

Talk  of  Democracy  !  — we  are  all  looking  for  a  master  ;  a  man  manlier  than  we. 
We  are  always  looking  for  a  great  man  to  solve  the  difficulty  too  hard  for  us,  to 
break  the  rock  which  lies  in  our  way,  —  to  represent  the  possibility  of  human  na- 
ture as  an  ideal,  and  then  to  realize  that  ideal  in  his  life.  Little  boys  in  the  country, 
working  against  time,  with  stints  to  do,  long  for  the  passing-by  of  some  tall  brother, 
who  in  a  few  minutes  shall  achieve  what  the  smaller  boy  took  hours  to  do.  And 
we  are  all  of  us  but  little  boys,  looking  for  some  great  brother  to  come  and  help  us 
end  our  tasks. 

But  it  is  not  quite  so  easy  to  recognize  the  greatest  kind  of  greatness.  A 
Nootka-Sound  Indian  would  not  see  much  in  Leibnitz,  Newton,  Socrates,  or  Dante  ; 
arid  if  a  great  man  were  to  come  as  much  before  us  as  we  are  before  the  Nootka- 
Sounders,  what  should  we  say  of  him  ?  Why,  the  worst  names  we  could  devise, 
Blasphemer,  Hypocrite,  Infidel,  Atheist.  Perhaps  we  should  dig  up  the  old  cross, 
and  make  a  new  martyr  of  the  man  posterity  will  worship  as  a  deity.  It  is  the  men 
who  are  up  that  see  the  rising  sun,  not  the  sluggards.  It  takes  greatness  to  see 
greatness,  and  know  it  at  the  first ;  I  mean  to  see  greatness  of  the  highest  kind. 
Bulk  anybody  can  see  ;  bulk  of  body  or  mind.  The  loftiest  form  of  greatness  is 
never  popular  in  its  time.  Men  cannot  understand  or  receive  it.  Guinea  negroes 
would  think  a  juggler  a  greater  man  than  Franklin.  What  would  be  thought  of 
Martin  Luther  at  Rome,  of  Washington  at  St.  Petersburg,  of  Fenelon  among  the 
Sacs  and  Foxes  ?  Herod  and  Pilate  were  popular  in  their  day,  —  men  of  property 
and  standing.  They  got  nominations  and  honor  enough.  Jesus  of  Nazareth  got 
no  nomination,  got  a  cross  between  two  thieves,  was  crowned  with  thorns,  and, 
when  he  died,  eleven  Galileans  gathered  together  to  lament  their  Lord.  Any  man 
can  measure  a  walking-stick,  —  so  many  hands  long,  and  so  many  nails  beside  ;  but 
it  takes  a  mountain  intellect  to  measure  the  Andes  and  the  Altai. 

THEODORE  PARKER. 


ANNIE    AND    LAWRENCE.  I97 


ANNIE     AND     LAWRENCE. 

"  A  SOLEMN  solitude  like  this  would,  to  my  thinking,  be  much  more  likely  to 
lower  your  spirits.  I  don't  like  solitude  myself,  and  therefore,  I  suppose  it  is  that  I 
thought  an  impressible  nature,  like  yours,  would  find  something  sad  in  the  loneliness 
of  these  silent  woods." 

Annie  turned  and  fixed  on  him  her  large  blue  eyes.  "  But  I'm  not  alone,"  she 
said. 

As  Lawrence  looked  into  her  eyes  he  saw  that  they  were  as  clear  as  the  purest 
crystal,  and  that  he  could  look  through  them  straight  into  her  soul,  and  there  he 
saw  that  this  woman  loved  him.  The  vision  was  as  sudden  as  if  it  had  been  a 
night-scene  lighted  up  by  a  flash  of  lightning,  but  it  was  as  clear  and  plain  as  if  it 
had  been  that  same  scene  under  the  noonday  sun.  .  .  . 

Never  before  had  he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  loved  him  ;  and, 
leaning  toward  this  one,  he  put  his  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  toward  him. 
"And  never  shall  you  be  alone,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  tears  starting  to  her  eyes,  and  then  she  put  her 
head  against  his  breast.  She  was  too  happy  to  say  anything,  and  she  did  not  try. 

FRANK  R.  STOCKTON. 


THE     ETHICS     OF     LAUGHTER. 

ANATOMIKALLY  konsidered,  laffing  iz  the  sensation  ov  pheeling  good  all  over, 
and  showing  it  principally  in  one  spot. 

Morally  konsidered,  it  iz  the  next  best  thing  tew  the  10  commandments.     .     . 

Theoretikally  konsidered,  it  kan  out-argy  all  the  logik  in  existence.     .     .     . 

Pyroteknikally  konsidered,  it  iz  the  fire-works  of  the  soul.     .     .     . 

But  i  don't  intend  this  essa  for  laffing  in  the  lump,  but  for  laffing  on  the 
half-shell. 

Laffing  iz  just  az  natral  tew  cum  tew  the  surface  az  a  rat  iz  tew  cum  out  ov 
hiz  hole  when  he  wants  tew.  , 

Yu  kant  keep  it  back  by  swallowing  enny  more  than  yu  kan  the  heekups. 

If  a  man  kan't  laff  there  iz  sum  mistake  made  in  putting  him  together,  and  if 
he  won't  laff  he  wants  az  mutch  keeping  away  from,  az  a  bear-trap  when  it  iz  sot. 

I  have  seen  people  who  laffed  altogether  too  mutch  for  their  own  good  or  for 
ennyboddy  else's  ;  they  laft  like  a  barrell  ov  nu  sider  with  the  tap  pulled  out,  a 
perfekt  stream. 

This  iz  a  grate  waste  ov  natral  juice. 


198 


THE    ETHICS     OF    LAUGHTER. 


I  have  seen  other  people  who  didn't  laff  enuff  tew  giv  themselfs  vent ;  they 
waz  like  a  barrell  ov  nu  sider  too,  that  waz  bunged  up  tite,  apt  tew  start  a  hoop 
and  leak  all  away  on  the  sly. 

Thare  ain't  neither  ov  theze  2  ways  right,  and  they  never  ought  tew  be 
pattented.  .  .  . 

Genuine  laffing  iz  the  vent  of  the  soul,  the  nostrils  of  the  heart,  and  iz  just  az 
necessary  for  health  and  happiness  az  spring  water  iz  for  a  trout. 

Thare  iz  one  kind  ov  a  laff  that  i  always  did  rekommend  ;  it  looks  out  ov  the  eye 
fust  with  a  merry  twinkle,  then  it  kreeps  down  on  its  hands  and  kneze  and  plays 

around  the  mouth  like  a  pretty  moth  around  the 
blaze  ov  a  kandle,  then  it  steals  over  into  the 
dimples  ov  the  cheeks  and  rides  around  into 
thoze  little  whirlpools  for  a  while,  then  it  lites 
up  the  whole  face  like  the  mello  bloom  on  a 
damask  roze,  then  it  swims  oph  on  the  air  with 
a  peal  az  klear  and  az  happy  az  a  dinner-bell, 
then  it  goes  bak  agin  on  golden  tiptoze  like  an 
angel  out  for  an  airing,  and  laze  down  on  its 
little  bed  ov  violets  in  the  heart  where  it  cum 
from. 

Thare  iz  another  laff  that  noboddy  kan  with- 
stand ;  it  iz  just  az  honest  and  noizy  az  a  distrikt 
skool  let  out  tew  play,  it  shakes  a  man  up  from 
hiz  toze  tew  hiz  temples,  it  dubbles  and  twists 
him  like  a  whiskee  phit,  it  lifts  him  oph  from  hiz 
cheer,  like  feathers,  and  lets  him  bak  agin  like 
melted  led,  it  goes  all  thru  him  like  a  pikpocket, 
and  finally  leaves  him  az  weak  and  az  krazy  az 
tho  he  had  bin  soaking  all  day  in  a  Rushing  bath  and  forgot  tew  be  took  out. 

This  kind  ov  a  laff  belongs  tew  jolly  good  phellows  who  are  az  healthy  az 
quakers,  and  who  are  az  eazy  tew  pleaze  az  a  gall  who  iz  going  tew  be  married 
to-morrow. 

In  konclushion  i  say  laff  every  good  chance  yu  kan  git,  but  don't  laff  unless  yu 
feal  like  it,  for  there  ain't  nothing  in  this  world  more  harty  than  a  good  honest 
laff,  nor  nothing  more  hollow  than  a  hartless  one. 

When  yu  do  laff  open  your  mouth  wide  enuff  for  the  noize  tew  git  out  without 
squealing,  thro  yure  hed  bak  az  tho  yu  waz  going  tew  be  shaved,  hold  on  tew  yure 
false  hair  with  both  hands  and  then  laff  till  yure  soul  gets  thoroly  rested. 
But  i  shall  tell  yu  more  about  theze  things  at  sum  fewter  time. 

HENRY  W.   SHAW  (Josh  Billings). 


ROGER     WILLIAMS. 


199 


ROGER     WILLIAMS. 


WHILE  the  State  was  thus  connecting  by  the  closest  bonds  the  energy  of  its 
faith  with  its  form  of  government,  there  appeared  in  its  midst  one  of  those  clear 
minds  which  sometimes  bless  the  world  by  their  power  of  receiving  moral  truth  in 
its  purest  light,  and  of  reducing  the  just  conclusions  of  their  principles  to  a  happy 
and  consistent  practice.  In  February  of  the  first  year  of  the  colony,  but  a  few 
months  after  the  arrival  of  Winthrop,  and  before  either  Cotton  or  Hooker  had  em- 
barked for  New  England,  there  arrived  at  Nantasket,  after  a  stormy  passage  of 
sixty-six  days,  "a  young  minister,  godly  and  zealous,  having  precious"  gifts.  It 
was  Roger  Williams.  He  was  then  but  a  little  more  than  thirty  years  of  age  ;  but 
his  mind  had  already  matured  a  doctrine  which  secures  him  an  immortality  of 
fame,  as  its  application  has  given  religious  peace  to  the  American  world.  He  was 
a  Puritan,  and  a  fugitive  from  English  persecution ;  but  his  wrongs  had  not  clouded 
his  accurate  understanding  ;  in  the  capacious  recesses  of  his  mind  he  had  revolved 
the  nature  of  intolerance,  and  he,  and  he  alone,  had  arrived  at  the  great  principle 
which  is  its  sole  effectual  remedy.  He  announced  his  discovery  under  the  simple 
proposition  of  the  sanctity  of  conscience.  The  civil  magistrate  should  restrain 
crime,  but  never  control  opinion  ;  should  punish  guilt,  but  never  violate  the  free- 
dom of  the  soul.  The  doctrine  contained  within  itself  an  entire  reformation  of 
theological  jurisprudence  ;  it  would  blot  from  the  statute-book  the  felony  of  non- 
conformity;  would  quench  the  fires  that  persecution  had  so  long  kept  burning;  would 
repeal  every  law  compel- 
ling attendance  on  public 
worship  ;  would  abolish 
tithes  and  all  forced  con- 
tributions to  the  main- 
tenance of  religion;  would 
give  an  equal  protection 
to  every  form  of  reli- 
gious faith  ;  and  never 
suffer  the  authority  of  the 
civil  government  to  be  en- 
listed against  the  mosque 
of  the  Mussulman  or  the 
altar  of  the  fire-worship- 
per, against  the  Jewish 
synagogue  or  the  Roman 

cathedral.  It  is  wonderful  with  what  distinctness  Roger  Williams  deduced 
these  inferences  from  his  great  principle  ;  the  consistency  with  which,  like  Pascal 
and  Edwards,  —  those  bold  and  profound  reasoners  on  other  subjects, — he 
accepted  every  fair  inference  from  his  doctrines  ;  and  the  circumspection  with  which 


THE   OLD    MILL. 


2oo  THE    DEATH    OF    COLONEL     NEWCOME. 

he  repelled  every  unjust  imputation.  In  the  unwavering  assertion  of  his  views  he 
never  changed  his  position  ;  the  sanctity  of  conscience  was  the  great  tenet  which, 
with  all  its  consequences,  he  defended,  as  he  first  trod  the  shores  of  New  England  ; 
and  in  his  extreme  old  age  it  was  the  last  pulsation  of  his  heart.  But  it  placed  the 
young  emigrant  in  direct  opposition  to  the  whole  system  on  which  Massachusetts  was 
founded  ;  and,  gentle  and  forgiving  as  was  his  temper,  prompt  as  he  was  to  con- 
cede every  thing  which  honesty  permitted,  he  always  asserted  his  belief  with 
temperate  firmness  and  unbending  benevolence. 

GEORGE  BANCROFT. 


THE     DEATH     OF     COLONEL     NEWCOME. 

BUT  our  Colonel,  we  all  were  obliged  to  acknowledge,  was  no  more  our  friend  of 
old  days.  He  knew  us  again,  and  was  good  to  every  one  round  him,  as  his  wont 
was  ;  especially  when  Boy  came,  his  old  eyes  lighted  up  with  simple  happiness,  and, 
with  eager  trembling  hands,  he  would  seek  under  his  bed-clothes,  or  the  pockets  of 
his  dressing-gown,  for  toys  or  cakes,  which  he  had  caused  to  be  purchased  for  his 
grandson.  There  was  a  little  laughing,  red-cheeked,  white-headed  gown-boy  of  the 
school,  to  whom  the  old  man  had  taken  a  great  fancy.  One  of  the  symptoms  of 
his  returning  consciousness  and  recovery,  as  we  hoped,  was  his  calling  for  this 
child,  who  pleased  our  friend  by  his  archness  and  merry  ways  ;  and  who,  to  the 
old  gentleman's  unfailing  delight,  used  to  call  him,  "  Codd  Colonel."  "Tell  little 

F ,  that  Codd  Colonel  wants  to  see  him  ;  "  and  the  little  gown-boy  was  brought 

to  him  ;  and  the  Colonel  would  listen  to  him  for  hours  ;  and  hear  all  about  his 
lessons  and  his  play;  and  prattle,  almost  as  childishly,  about  Dr.  Raine,  and  his  own 
early  school-days.  The  boys  of  the  school,  it  must  be  said,  had  heard  the  noble 
old  gentleman's  touching  history,  and  had  all  got  to  know  and  love  him.  They 
came  every  day  to  hear  news  of  him  ;  sent  him  in  books  and  papers  to  amuse  him  ; 
and  some  benevolent  young  souls,  —  God's  blessing  on  all  honest  boys,  say  I,  — 
painted  theatrical  characters,  and  sent  them  in  to  Codd  Colonel's  grandson.  The 
little  fellow  was  made  free  of  gown-boys,  and  once  came  thence  to  his  grandfather 
in  a  little  gown,  which  delighted  the  old  man  hugely.  Boy  said  he  would  like  to 
be  a  little  gown-boy ;  and  I  make  no  doubt,  when  he  is  old  enough,  his  father  will 
get  him  that  post,  and  put  him  under  the  tuition  of  my  friend  Dr.  Senior. 

So,  weeks  passed  away,  during  which  our  dear  old  friend  still  remained  with  us. 
His  mind  was  gone  at  intervals,  but  would  rally  feebly  ;  and  with  his  consciousness 
returned  his  love,  his  simplicity,  his  sweetness.  He  would  talk  French  with 
Madame  de  Florae,  at  which  time,  his  memory  appeared  to  awaken  with  surprising 
vividness,  his  cheek  flushed,  and  he  was  a  youth  again,  —  a  youth  all  love  and  hope, 
—  a  stricken  old  man,  with  a  beard  as  white  as  snow  covering  the  noble  careworn 


THE    DEATH    OF    COLONEL    NEWCOME.  201 

face.  At  such  times  he  called  her  by  her  Christian  name  of  Leonore  ;  he  addressed 
courtly  old  words  of  regard  and  kindness  to  the  aged  lady  ;  anon  he  wandered  in 
his  talk,  and  spoke  to  her  as  if  they  still  were  young.  Now,  as  in  those  early  days, 
his  heart  was  pure  ;  no  anger  remained  in  it ;  no  guile  tainted  it ;  only  peace  and 
good-will  dwelt  in  it. 

Rosey's  death  had  seemed  to  shock  him  for  a  while  when  the  unconscious  little 
boy  spoke  of  it.  Before  that  circumstance,  Clive  had  even  forbore  to  wear  mourn- 
ing, lest  the  news  should  agitate  his  father.  The  Colonel  remained  silent  and  was 
very  much  disturbed  all  that  day,  but  he  never  appeared  to  comprehend  the  fact 
quite  ;  and,  once  or  twice  afterwards,  asked,  Why  she  did  not  come  to  see  him  ? 
She  was  prevented,  he  supposed  —  she  was  prevented,  he  said,  with  a  look  of 
terror  :  he  never  once  otherwise  alluded  to  that  unlucky  tyrant  of  his  household, 
who  had  made  his  last  years  so  unhappy. 

The  circumstances  of  Clive's  legacy  he  never  understood  :  but  more  than  once 
spoke  of  Barnes  to  Ethel,  and  sent  his  compliments  to  him,  and  said  he  should  like 
to  shake  him  by  the  hand.  Barnes  Newcome  never  once  offered  to  touch  that 
honored  hand,  though  his  sister  bore  her  uncle's  message  to  him.  They  came  often 
from  Bryanston  Square  :  Mrs.  Hobson  even  offered  to  sit  with  the  Colonel,  and  read 
to  him,  and  brought  him  books  for  his  improvement.  But  her  presence  disturbed 
him  ;  he  cared  not  for  her  books  ;  the  two  nurses  whom  he  loved  faithfully  watched 
him  ;  and  my  wife  and  I  were  admitted  to  him  sometimes,  both  of  whom  he  honored 
with  regard  and  recognition.  As  for  F.  B.,  in  order  to  be  near  his  Colonel,  did 
not  that  good  fellow  take  up  his  lodging  in  Cistercian  Lane,  at  the  "  Red  Cow  "  ? 
He  is  one  whose  errors,  let  us  hope,  shall  be  pardoned,  quia  multum  amavit.  I  am 
sure  he  felt  ten  times  more  joy  at  hearing  of  Clive's  legacy,  than  if  thousands  had 
been  bequeathed  to  himself.  .  May  good  health  and  good  fortune  speed  him  ! 

The  days  went  on,  and  our  hopes,  raised  sometimes,  began  to  flicker  and  fail. 
One  evening  the  Colonel  left  his  chair  for  his  bed  in  pretty  good  spirits,  but  passed 
a  disturbed  night,  and  the  next  morning  was  too  weak  to  rise.  Then  he  remained 
in  his  bed,  and  his  friends  visited  him  there.  One  afternoon  he  asked  for  his  little 
gown-boy,  and  the  child  was  brought  to  him,  and  sat  by  the  bed  with  a  very  awe- 
stricken  face  :  and  then  gathered  courage,  and  tried  to  amuse  him  by  telling  him 
how  it  was  a  half-holiday,  and  they  were  having  a  cricket-match  with  the  St.  Peter's 
boys  in  the  green,  and  Gray  Friars  was  in  and  winning.  The  Colonel  quite  under- 
stood about  it  ;  he  would  like  to  see  the  game  ;  he  had  played  many  a  game  on  that 
green  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  grew  excited  ;  Clive  dismissed  his  father's  little 
friend,  and  put  a  sovereign  into  his  hand;  and  away  he  ran  to  say  that  Codcl 
Colonel  had  come  into  a  fortune,  and  to  buy  tarts,  and  to  see  the  match  out.  I, 
curre,  little  white-haired  gown-boy  !  Heaven  speed  you,  little  friend. 

After  the  child  had  gone,  Thomas  Newcome  began  to  wander  more  and  more. 
He  talked  louder  ;  he  gave  the  word  of  command,  spoke  Hindustanee  as  if  to  his  men. 
Then  he  spoke  words  in  French  rapidly,  seizing  a  hand  that  was  near  him,  and  cry- 
ing, "  Toujours,  toujours  !  "  But  it  was  Ethel's  hand  which  he  took.  Ethel  and 
Clive  and  the  nurse  were  in  the  room  with  him  ;  the  nurse  came  to  us,  who  were 


202  TO     GROSVENOR     C.     BEDFORD. 

sitting  in  the  adjoining  apartment ;  Madame  de  Florae  was  there,  with  my  wife  and 
Bayham 

At  the  look  in  the  woman's  countenance  Madame  de  Florae  started  up.  "  He 
is  very  bad,  he  wanders  a  great  deal,"  the  nurse  whispered.  The  French  lady  fell 
instantly  on  her  knees,  and  remained  rigid  in  prayer. 

Sometime  afterwards  Ethel  came  in  with  a  scared  face  to  our  pale  group.  "  He 
is  calling  for  you  again,  dear  lady,"  she  said,  going  up  to  Madame  de  Florae,  who 
was  still  kneeling  ;  "  and  just  now  he  said  he  wanted  Pendennis  to  take  care  of  his 
boy.  He  will  not  know  you."  She  hid  her  tears  as  she  spoke. 

She  went  into  the  room  where  Clive  was  at  the  bed's  foot  ;  the  old  man  within 
it  talked  on  rapidly  for  awhile  :  then  again  he  would  sigh  and  be  still :  once  more  I 
heard  him  say  hurriedly,  "  Take  care  of  him  when  I'm  in  India  ;"  and  then  with  a 
heartrending  voice  he  called  out,  "  Leonore,  Leonore!"  She  was  kneeling  by  his 
side  now.  The  patient's  voice  sank  into  faint  murmurs  ;  only  a  moan  now  and 
then  announced  that  he  was  not  asleep. 

At  the  usual  evening  hour  the  chapel  bell  began  to  toll,  and  Thomas  New- 
come's  hands  outside  the  bed  feebly  beat  time.  And  just  as  the  last  bell  struck,  a 
peculiar  sweet  smile  shone  over  his  face,  and  he  lifted  up  his  head  a  little,  and 
quickly  said,  "  Adsum  !  "  and  fell  back.  It  was  the  word  we  used  at  school,  when 
names  were  called  ;  and  lo,  he,  whose  heart  was  as  that  of  a  little  child,  had  an- 
swered to  his  name,  and  stood  in  the  presence  of  The  Master. 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


TO     GROSVENOR     C.     BEDFORD. 

LET  not  Gifford  suppose  me  a  troublesome  man  to  deal  with,  pertinacious  about 
trifles,  or  standing  upon  punctilios  of  authorship.  No,  Grosvenor,  I  am  a  quiet, 
patient,  easy-going  hack  of  the  mule  breed  ;  regular  as  clock-work  in  my  pace,  sure- 
footed, bearing  the  burden  which  is  laid  on  me,  and  only  obstinate  in  choosing  my 
own  path.  If  Gifford  could  see  me  by  this  fireside,  where,  like  Nicodemus,  one 
candle  suffices  me  in  a  large  room,  he  would  see  a  man  in  a  coat  "still  more  thread- 
bare than  his  own"  when  he  wrote  his  "Imitation,"  working  hard  and  getting 
little  —  a  bare  maintenance,  and  hardly  that ;  writing  poems  and  history  for  pos- 
terity, with  his  whole  heart  and  soul ;  one  daily  progressive  in  learning,  not  so 
learned  as  he  is  poor,  and  not  so  poor  as  proud,  not  so  proud  as  happy.  Grosvenor, 
there  is  not  a  lighter-hearted  nor  a  happier  man  on  the  face  of  this  wide  world. 

Your  godson  thinks  that  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  play  with  him,  and  any- 
body who  saw  what  reason  he  has  for  his  opinion  would  be  disposed  to  agree  with 
him.  I  wish  you  could  see  my  beautiful  boy ! 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


MAKING     A     FRIEND. 


203 


GEORGE   MACDONALU. 


MAKING     A     FRIEND. 


WHEN,  having  followed  the  road,  I  stood  at  last  on  the  bridge,  and,  looking  up 
and  down  the  river  through  the  misty  air,  saw  two  long  rows  of  these  pollards 
diminishing  till  they  vanished  in  both  directions,  the  sight  of  them  took  from  me 
all  power  of  enjoying  the  water  beneath  me,  the  green  fields  around  me,  or  even 
the  old-world  beauty  of  the  little  bridge  upon  which  I  stood,  although  all  sorts  of 
bridges  have  been  from  very  infancy  a  delight  to  me.  For  I  am  one  of  those  who 
never  get  rid  of  their  infantile  predilections,  and  to  have  once  enjoyed  making  a 
mud  bridge,  was  to  enjoy  all  bridges  forever. 

I  saw  a  man  in  a  white  smock-frock  coming  along  the  road  beyond,  but  I  turned 


204  MAKING    A     FRIEND. 

my  back  to  the  road,  leaned  my  arms  on  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  and  stood  gazing 
where  I  saw  no  visions,  namely,  at  those  very  poplars.  I  heard  the  man's  foot- 
steps coming  up  the  crown  of  the  arch,  but  I  would  not  turn  to  greet  him.  I  was 
in  a  selfish  humor  if  ever  I  was  ;  for  surely  if  ever  one  man  ought  to  greet  another, 
it  was  upon  such  a  comfortless  afternoon.  The  footsteps  stopped  behind  me,  and 
I  heard  a  voice  : 

"  I  beg  yer  pardon,  sir ;  but  be  you  the  new  vicar  ?  " 
I  turned  instantly  and  answered,  "  I  am.     Do  you  want  me  ?  " 
"  I  wanted  to  see  yer  face,  sir,  that  wur  all,  if  ye'll  not  take  it  amiss." 
Before  me  stood  a  tall  old  man  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  clothed  as  I  have  said, 
in  a  white  smock-frock.     He   smoothed  his  short  gray  hair  with  his  curved  palm 
down  over  his  forehead  as  he  stood.      His  face  was  of  a  red  brown,  from  much  ex- 
posure to  the  weather.     There  was  a  certain  look  of  roughness,  without  hardness, 
in  it,  which  spoke  of  endurance  rather  than  resistance,  although  he  could  evidently 
set  his  face  as  a  flint.     His  features  were  large  and  a  little  coarse,  but  the  smile 
that  parted  his  lips  when  he  spoke,  shone  in  his  gray  eyes  as  well,  and  lighted  up 
a  countenance  in  which  a  man  might  trust. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  yer  face,  sir,  if  ye'll  not  take  it  amiss." 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  answered,  pleased  with  the  man's  address,  as  he  stood  square 
before  me,  looking  as  modest  as  fearless.  "The  sight  of  a  man's  face  is  what 
everybody  has  a  right  to;  but,  for  all  that,  I  should  like  to  know  why  you  want  to 
see  my  face." 

"  Why,  sir,  you  be  the  new  vicar.     You  kindly  told  me  so  when  I  axed  you." 
"Well,  then,  you'll  see  my  face  on  Sunday  in  church  —  that  is,  if  you  happen 
to  be  there." 

For,  although  some  might  think  it  the  more  dignified  way,  I  could  not  take  it 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  would  be  at  church.  A  man  might  have  better  rea- 
sons for  staying  away  from  church  than  I  had  for  going,  even  though  I  was  the 
parson,  and  it  was  my  business.  Some  clergymen  separate  between  themselves 
and  their  office  to  a  degree  which  I  cannot  understand.  To  assert  the  dignities  of 
my  office  seems  to  me  very  like  exalting  myself ;  and  when  I  have  had  a  twinge  of 
conscience  about  it,  as  has  happened  more  than  once,  I  have  then  found  comfort 
in  these  two  texts :  "  The  Son  of  Man  came  not  to  be  ministered  unto  but  to  min- 
ister ; "  and  "  It  is  enough  that  the  servant  should  be  as  his  master."  Neither  have 
I  ever  been  able  to  see  the  very  great  difference  between  right  and  wrong  in  a 
clergyman,  and  right  and  wrong  in  another  man.  All  that  I  can  pretend  to  have 
yet  discovered  comes  to  this  :  that  what  is  right  in  another  man  is  right  in  a  clergy- 
man ;  and  what  is  wrong  in  another  man  is  much  worse  in  a  clergyman.  Here, 
however,  is  one  more  proof  of  approaching  age.  I  do  not  mean  the  opinion,  but 
the  digression. 

"  Well,  then,"  I  said,  "  you'll  see  my  face  in  church  on  Sunday,  if  you  happen 
to  be  there." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  but  you  see,  sir,  on  the  bridge  here,  the  parson  is  the  parson  like, 
and  I'm  Old  Rogers ;  and  I  looks  in  his  face,  and  he  looks  in  mine,  and  I  says  to 


MAKING    A     FRIEND.  205 

myself,  'This  is  my  parson.'     But  o'  Sundays  he's  nobody's  parson  ;  he's  got  his 
work  to  do,  and  it  mun  be  done,  and  there's  an  end  on't." 

That  there  was  a  real  idea  in  the  old  man's  mind  was  considerably  clearer  than 
the  logic  by  which  he  tried  to  bring  it  out. 

"  Did  you  know  parson  that's  gone,  sir  ? "  he  went  on. 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"O,  sir  !  he  wur  a  good  parson.  Many's  the  time  he  come  and  sit  at  my  son's 
bedside  —  him  that's  dead  and  gone,  sir  —  for  a  long  hour,  on  a  Saturday  night, 
too.  And  then  when  I  see  him  up  in  the  desk  the  next  mornin',  I'd  say  to  my- 
self, '  Old  Rogers,  that's  the  same  man  as  sat  by  your  son's  bedside  last  night. 
Think  o'  that,  Old  Rogers  !  '  But,  somehow,  I  never  did  feel  right  sure  o'  that 
same.  He  didn't  seem  to  have  the  same  cut,  somehow ;  and  he  didn't  talk  a  bit 
the  same.  And  when  he  spoke  to  me  after  sermon,  in  the  churchyard,  I  was  always 
of  a  mind  to  go  into  the  church  again  and  look  up  to  the  pulpit  to  see  if  he  wur 
really  out  ov  it ;  for  this  warn't  the  same  man,  you  see.  But  you'll  know  all  about 
it  better  than  I  can  tell  you,  sir.  Only  I  always  liked  parson  better  out  o'  the 
pulpit,  and  that's  how  I  come  to  want  to  make  you  look  at  me,  sir,  instead  o'  the 
water  down  there,  afore  I  see  you  in  the  church  to-morrow  mornin'." 

The  old  man  laughed  a  kindly  laugh  ;  but  he  had  set  me  thinking,  and  I  did 
not  know  what  to  say  to  him  all  at  once.  So  after  a  short  pause,  he  resumed  — 

"  You'll  be  thinking  me  a  queer  kind  of  a  man,  sir,  to  speak  to  my  betters 
before  my  betters  speaks  to  me.  But  mayhap  you  don't  know  what  a  parson  is  to 
us  poor  folk  that  has  ne'er  a  friend  more  larned  than  theirselves  but  the  parson. 
And  besides,  sir,  I'm  an  old  salt,  —  an  old  man-o'-war's  man,  — and  I've  been  all 
round  the  world,  sir;  and  I  ha'  been  in  all  sorts  o'  company,  pirates  and  all,  sir; 
and  I  ain't  a  bit  frightened  of  a  parson.  No  ;  I  love  a  parson,  sir.  And  I'll  tell 
you  why,  sir.  He's  got  a  good  telescope,  and  he  gits  to  the  masthead,  and  he 
looks  out.  And  he  sings  out,  '  Land  ahead  ! '  or  '  Breakers  ahead  ! '  and  gives 
directions  accordin'.  Only  I  can't  always  make  out  what  he  says.  But  when  he 
shuts  up  his  spyglass,  and  comes  down  the  riggin',  and  talks  to  us  like  one  man  to 
another,  then  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  the  parson.  Good-evenin'  to 
you,  sir,  and  welcome  to  Marshmallows." 

The  pollards  did  not  look  half  so  dreary.  The  river  began  to  glimmer  a  little  ; 
and  the  old  bridge  had  become  an  interesting  old  bridge.  The  country  altogether 
was  rather  nice  than  otherwise.  I  had  found  a  friend  already  !  —  that  is,  a  man  to 
whom  I  might  possibly  be  of  some  use ;  and  that  was  the  most  precious  friend  I 
could  think  of  in  my  present  situation  and  mood.  I  had  learned  something  from 
him  too  ;  and  I  resolved  to  try  all  I  could  to  be  the  same  man  in  the  pulpit  that  I 
was  out  of  it.  Some  may  be  inclined  to  say  that  I  had  better  have  formed  the 
resolution  to  be  the  same  man  out  of  the  pulpit  that  I  was  in  it.  But  the  one  will 
go  quite  right  with  the  other.  Out  of  the  pulpit  I  would  be  the  same  man  I  was 
in  it  —  seeing  and  feeling  the  realities  of  the  unseen  ;  and  in  the  pulpit  I  would  be 
the  same  man  I  was  out  of  it  —  taking  facts  as  they  are,  and  dealing  with  things 
as  they  show  themselves  in  the  world.  GEORGE  MACDONALD. 


206  TO    LADY    HOLLAND.  — TO     BERNARD    BARTON. 


TO     LADY     HOLLAND. 

I  HEAR  you  laugh  at  me  for  being  happy  in  the  country,  and  upon  this  I  have  a 
few  words  to  say.  In  the  first  place,  whether  one  lives  or  dies,  I  hold,  and  have 
always  held,  to  be  of  infinitely  less  moment  than  is  generally  supposed  ;  but  if  life 
is  to  be,  then  it  is  common  sense  to  amuse  yourself  with  the  best  you  can  find 
where  you  happen  to  be  placed.  I  am  not  leading  precisely  the  life  I  should 
choose,  but  that  which  (all  things  considered,  as  well  as  I  could  consider  them)  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  the  most  eligible.  I  am  resolved,  therefore,  to  like  it,  and  to 
reconcile  myself  to  it ;  which  is  more  manly  than  to  feign  myself  above  it,  and  to 
send  up  complaints  by  the  post,  of  being  thrown  away,  and  being  desolate,  and 
such  like  trash.  I  am  prepared,  therefore,  either  way.  If  the  chances  of  life  ever 
enable  me  to  emerge,  I  will  show  you  that  I  have  not  been  wholly  occupied  by 
small  and  sordid  pursuits.  If  (as  the  greater  probability  is)  I  am  come  to  the  end  of 
my  career,  I  give  myself  quietly  up  to  horticulture,  etc.  In  short,  if  it  be  my  lot  to 
crawl,  I  will  crawl  contentedly  ;  if  to  fly,  I  will  fly  with  alacrity  ;  but,  as  long  as  I 
can  possibly  avoid  it,  I  will  never  be  unhappy.  If,  with  a  pleasant  wife,  three 
children,  a  good  house  and  farm,  many  books,  and  many  friends,  who  wish  me  well, 
I  cannot  be  happy,  I  am  a  very  silly,  foolish  fellow,  and  what  becomes  of  me  is  of 
very  little  consequence.  I  have  at  least  this  chance  of  doing  well  in  Yorkshire, 
that  I  am  heartily  tired  of  London. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 


TO     BERNARD     BARTON. 

DEAR  B.  B.  :  —  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  succumb  under  an  insurmountable 
day-mare,  —  "a  whoreson  lethargy,  "  Falstaff  calls  it,  — an  indisposition  to  do  any- 
thing, or  to  be  anything ;  a  total  deadness  and  distaste  a  suspension  of  vitality  ; 
an  indifference  to  locality  ;  a  numb,  soporifical  good-for-nothingness  ;  an  ossifica- 
tion all  over  ;  an  oyster-like  insensibility  to  the  passing  events  ;  a  mind-stupor ;  a 
brawny  defiance  to  the  needles  of  a  thrusting-in  conscience  ?  Did  you  ever  have  a 
very  bad  cold,  with  a  total  irresolution  to  submit  to  water-gruel  processes?  This 
has  been  for  many  weeks  my  lot,  and  my  excuse  ;  my  fingers  drag  heavily  over  this 
paper,  and,  to  my  thinking,  it  is  three-and-twenty  furlongs  from  here  to  the  end  of 
this  demi-sheet.  I  have  not  a  thing  to  say  ;  nothing  is  of  more  importance  than 

another;  I  am  flatter  than  a  denial  or  a  pancake;  emptier  than  Judge 's  wig 

when  the  head  is  in  it  ;  duller  than  a  country  stage  when  the  actors  are  off  it ;  a 
cipher,  an  O  !  I  acknowledge  life  at  all  only  by  an  occasional  convulsional  cough, 
and  a  permanent  phlegmatic  pain  in  the  chest.  I  am  weary  of  the  world  ;  life  is 


EVERY    MAN    GREAT.  207 

weary  of  me.  My  day  is  gone  into  twilight,  and  I  don't  think  it  worth  the  expense 
of  candles.  My  wick  hath  a  thief  in  it,  but  I  can't  muster  courage  to  snuff  it.  I 
inhale  suffocation  ;  I  can't  distinguish  veal  from  mutton  ;  nothing  interests  me. 
'Tis  twelve  o'clock  and  Thurtell  is  just  now  coming  out  upon  the  New  Drop,  Jack 
Ketch,  alertly  tucking  up  his  greasy  sleeves  to  do  the  last  office  of  mortality,  yet 
cannot  I  elicit  a  groan  or  a  moral  reflection.  If  you  told  me  the  world  will  be  at 
an  end  to-morrow,  I  should  just  say  :  "Will  it  ?  "  I  have  not  volition  enough  left 
to  dot  my  i's,  much  less  to  comb  my  eyebrows  ;  my  eyes  are  set  in  my  head  ;  my 
brains  are  gone  out  to  see  a  poor  relation  in  Moorfields,  and  they  did  not  say  when 
they'd  come  back  again  ;  my  skull  is  a  Grub  Street  attic  to  let,  — not  so  much  as  a 
joint-stool  or  a  cracked  jorden  left  in  it ;  my  hand  writes,  not  I,  from  habit,  as 
chickens  run  about  a  little  when  their  heads  are  off.  O  for  a  vigorous  fit  of  gout, 
colic,  toothache,  —  an  ear-wig  in  my  auditory,  a  fly  in  my  visual  organs.  Pain  is 
life,  —  the  sharper  the  more  evidence  of  life  ;  but  this  apathy,  this  death  !  Did 
you  ever  have  an  obstinate  cold,  —  a  six  or  seven  weeks'  unintermitting  chill  and  sus- 
pension of  hope,  fear,  conscience,  and  everything  ?  Yet  do  I  try  all  I  can  to  cure 
it ;  I  try  wine  and  spirits,  and  smoking,  and  snuff  in  unsparing  quantities;  but  they 
all  only  seem  to  make  me  worse  instead  of  better.  I  sleep  in  a  damp  room,  but 
it  does  me  no  good;  I  come  home  late  o'  nights,  and  do  not  find  any  visible  amend- 
ment !  Who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this  death  ?  It  is  just  fifteen  min- 
utes after  twelve  ;  Thurtell  is  by  this  time  a  good  way  on  his  journey,  baiting  at 
Scorpion,  perhaps  !  Ketch  is  bargaining  for  his  cast-coat  and  waist-coat  ;  the  Jew 
demurs  at  first  at  three  half-crowns,  but  on  consideration  that  he  may  get  some- 
what by  showing  them  in  the  town,  finally  closes. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


EVERY     MAN     GREAT. 

EVERY  man,  in  every  condition,  is  great.  It  is  only  our  own  diseased  sight 
which  makes  him  little.  A  man  is  great  as  a  man,  be  he  where  or  what  he  may. 
The  grandeur  of  his  nature  turns  to  insignificance  all  outward  distinctions.  His 
powers  of  intellect,  of  conscience,  of  love,  of  knowing  God,  of  perceiving  the 
beautiful,  of  acting  on  his  own  mind,  on  outward  nature,  and  on  his  fellow-creatures, 
—  these  are  glorious  prerogatives.  Through  the  vulgar  error  of  undervaluing  what 
is  common,  we  are  apt,  indeed,  to  pass  these  by  as  of  little  worth.  But,  as  in  the 
outward  creation,  so  in  the  soul,  the  common  is  the  most  precious.  Science  and 
art  may  invent  splendid  modes  of  illuminating  the  apartments  of  the  opulent ;  but 
these  are  all  poor  and  worthless,  compared  with  the  common  light  which  the  sun 
sends  into  all  our  windows,  which  he  pours  freely,  impartially,  over  hill  and  valley, 
which  kindles  daily  the  eastern  and  western  sky :  and  so  the  common  lights  of 


2o8  EVERY    MAN    GREAT. 

reason,  and  conscience,  and  love,  are  of  more  worth  and  dignity  than  the  rare  en- 
dowments which  give  celebrity  to  a  few.  Let  us  not  disparage  that  nature  which 
is  common  to  all  man ;  for  no  thought  can  measure  its  grandeur.  It  is  the  image 
of  God,  the  image  even  of  his  infinity,  for  no  limits  can  be  set  to  its  unfolding. 
He  who  possesses  the  divine  powers  of  the  soul  is  a  great  being,  be  his  place 
what  it  may.  You  may  clothe  him  with  rags,  may  immure  him  in  a  dungeon,  may 
chain  him  to  slavish  tasks.  But  he  is  still  great.  You  may  shut  him  out  of  your 
houses;  but  God  opens  to  him  heavenly  mansions.  He  makes  no  show,  indeed,  in 
the  streets  of  a  splendid  city  ;  but  a  clear  thought,  a  pure  affection,  a  resolute  act  of  a 
virtuous  will,  have  a  dignity  of  quite  another  kind,  and  far  higher  than  accumula- 
tions of  brick,  and  granite,  and  plaster,  and  stucco,  however  cunningly  put  together. 
The  truly  great  are  to  be  found  everywhere  ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  say  in  what  con- 
dition they  spring  up  most  plentifully.  Real  greatness  has  nothing  to  do  with  a 
man's  sphere.  It  does  not  lie  in  the  magnitude  of  his  outward  agency,  in  the  ex- 
tent of  the  effects  which  he  produces.  The  greatest  men  may  do  comparatively 
little  abroad.  Perhaps  the  greatest  in  our  city  at  this  moment  are  buried  in 
obscurity.  Grandeur  of  character  lies  wholly  in  force  of  soul,  —  that  is,  in  the 
force  of  thought,  moral  principle,  and  love ;  and  this  may  be  found  in  the  humblest 
condition  of  life.  A  man  brought  up  to  an  obscure  trade,  and  hemmed  in  by  the 
wants  of  a  growing  family,  may,  in  his  narrow  sphere,  perceive  more  clearly,  dis- 
criminate more  keenly,  weigh  evidence  more  wisely,  seize  on  the  right  means  more 
decisively,  and  have  more  presence  of  mind  in  difficulty,  than  another  who  has 
accumulated  vast  stores  of  knowledge  by  laborious  study ;  and  he  has  more  of  in- 
tellectual greatness.  Many  a  man,  who  has  gone  but  a  few  miles  from  home, 
understands  human  nature  better,  detects  motives  and  weighs  character  more 
sagaciously,  than  another  who  has  traveled  over  the  known  world,  and  made  a  name 
by  his  reports  of  different  countries.  It  is  force  of  thought  which  measures  intel- 
lectual, and  so  it  is  force  of  principle  which  measures  moral,  greatness,  —  that 
highest  of  human  endowments,  that  brightest  manifestation  of  the  Divinity.  The 
greatest  man  is  he  who  chooses  the  Right  with  invincible  resolution,  who  resists 
the  sorest  temptations  from  within  and  without,  who  bears  the  heaviest  burdens 
cheerfully,  who  is  calmest  in  storms  and  most  fearless  under  menace  and  frowns, 
whose  reliance  on  truth,  on  virtue,  on  God,  is  most  unfaltering.  I  believe  this 
greatness  to  be  most  common  among  the  multitude,  whose  names  are  never  heard. 
Among  common  people  will  be  found  more  of  hardship  borne  manfully,  more  of 
unvarnished  truth,  more  of  religious  trust,  more  of  that  generosity  which  gives 
what  the  giver  needs  himself,  and  more  of  a  wise  estimate  of  life  and  death,  than 
among  the  more  prosperous.  In  these  remarks  you  will  see  why  I  feel  and  express 
a  deep  interest  in  the  obscure,  —  in  the  mass  of  men.  The  distinctions  of  society 
vanish  before  the  light  of  these  truths.  I  attach  myself  to  the  multitude,  not  be- 
cause they  are  voters  and  have  political  power,  but  because  they  are  men,  and 
have  within  their  reach  the  most  glorious  prizes  of  humanity. 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING. 


THE    ALHAMBRA     BY    MOONLIGHT.  209 


THE     ALHAMBRA     BY     MOONLIGHT. 

THE  moon,  which  then  was  invisible,  has  gradually  gained  upon  the  nights,  and 
now  rolls  in  full  splendor  above  the  towers,  pouring  a  flood  of  tempered  light  into 
every  court  and  hall.  The  garden  beneath  my  window  is  gently  lighted  up,  the 
orange  and  citron  trees  are  tipped  with  silver,  the  fountain  sparkles  in  the  moon- 
beams, and  even  the  blush  of  the  rose  is  faintly  visible. 

I  have  sat  for  hours  at  my  window  inhaling  the  sweetness  of  the  garden,  and 
musing  on  the  checkered  features  of  those  whose  history  is  dimly  shadowed  out  in 
the  elegant  memorials  around.  Sometimes  I  have  issued  forth  at  midnight  when 
every  thing  was  quiet,  and  have  wandered  over  the  whole  building.  Who  can  do 
justice  to  a  moonlight  night  in  such  a  climate  and  in  such  a  place?  The  tempera- 
ture of  an  Andalusian  midnight,  in  summer,  is  perfectly  ethereal.  We  seem  lifted 
up  into  a  purer  atmosphere  ;  there  is  a  serenity  of  soul,  a  buoyancy  of  spirits,  an 
elasticity  of  frame,  that  render  mere  existence  enjoyment.  The  effect  of  moon- 
light, too,  on  the  Alhambra  has  something  like  enchantment.  Every  rent  and 
chasm  of  time,  every  mouldering  tint  and  weather-stain,  disappears,  the  marble  re- 
sumes its  original  whiteness,  the  long  colonnades  brighten  in  the  moonbeams,  the 
halls  are  illuminated  with  a  softened  radiance,  until  the  whole  edifice  reminds  one 
of  the  enchanted  palace  of  an  Arabian  tale. 

At  such  time  I  have  ascended  to  the  little  pavilion,  called  the  Queen's  Toilette, 
to  enjoy  its  varied  and  extensive  prospect.  To  the  right,  the  snowy  summits  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada  would  gleam  like  silver  clouds  against  the  darker  firmament,  and 
all  the  outlines  of  the  mountain  would  be  softened,  yet  delicately  defined.  My  de- 
light, however,  would  be  to  lean  over  the  parapet  of  the  tocador,  and  gaze  down 
upon  Granada,  spread  out  lik'e  a  map  below  me,  all  buried  in  deep  repose,  and  its 
white  palaces  and  convents  sleeping  as  it  were  in  the  moonshine. 

Sometimes  I  would  hear  the  faint  sounds  of  castanets  from  some  party  of 
dancers  lingering  in  the  Alameda  ;  at  other  times  I  have  heard  the  dubious -tones 
of  a  guitar,  and  the  notes  of  a  single  voice  rising  from  some  solitary  street,  and 
have  pictured  to  myself  some  youthful  cavalier  serenading  his  lady's  window,  — a 
gallant  custom  of  former  days,  but  now  sadly  on  the  decline,  except  in  the  remote 
towns  and  villages  of  Spain. 

Such  are  the  scenes  that  have  detained  me  for  many  an  hour  loitering  about 
the  courts  and  balconies  of  the  castle,  enjoying  that  mixture  of  reverie  and  sensa- 
tion which  steal  away  existence  in  a  Southern  climate,  —  and  it  has  been  almost 
morning  before  I  have  retired  to  my  bed,  and  been  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  falling 
waters  of  the  fountain  of  Lindaraxa. 

WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


210  NIPPED     IN    THE    B  UD. 


NIPPED     IN     THE     BUD. 

MR.  THOMAS  WATTS  had  already  conceived  a  passion  that  was  ardent,  and 
pointed,  and  ambitious  to  a  degree  which  Susan  characterized  as  "  perfectly 
redickerlous." 

But  who  was  the  young  lady  who  had  thus  concentrated  upon  herself  all  the 
first  fresh  worship  of  that  young  but  manly  heart  ?  Was  it  Miss  Jones,  or  Miss 
Sharp  ?  Was  it  Miss  Holland  or  Miss  Hutchins  ?  Not  one  of  these.  Mr.  Thomas 
Watts  had  with  one  tremendous  bound  leaped  clear  over  the  heads  of  these  secon- 
dary characters,  and  cast  himself  at  the  very  foot  of  the  throne.  To  be  plain,  Mr. 
Watts  fondly,  entirely,  madly,  loved  Miss  Julia  Louisa  Wilkins,  the  mistress  and 
head  of  the  Dukesborough  Female  Institution. 

Probably  this  surprising  reach  might  be  attributed  to  the  ambitious  nature  of 
his  father,  from  whom  he  had  inherited  this  and  some  other  qualities.  Doubtless, 
however,  the  recollection  of  having  been  kept  long  in  frocks  had  engendered  a  de- 
sire to  convince  the  world  that  they  had  sadly  mistaken  their  man.  Whatever  was 
the  motive  power,  such  was  the  fact.  Now,  notwithstanding  this  state  of  his  own 
feelings,  he  had  never  made  a  declaration  in  so  many  words  to  Miss  Wilkins.  But 
he  did  not  doubt  fora  moment  that  she  thoroughly  understood  his  looks,  and  sighs, 
and  devoted  services.  For  the  habit  which  all  of  us  have  of  enveloping  beloved 
objects  in  our  hearts,  and  making  them,  so  to  speak,  understand  and  reciprocate 
our  feelings,  had  come  to  Mr.  Watts  even  to  a  greater  degree,  perhaps,  than  if  he 
had  been  older.  He  was  as  little  inclined  and  as  little  able  to  doubt  Miss  Wilkins  as 
to  doubt  himself.  Facts  seemed  to  bear  him  out.  She  had  not  only  smiled  upon 
him  time  and  time  again,  and  patted  him  sweetly  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and 
praised  his  roach  to  the  very  skies  ;  but  once,  when  he  had  carried  her  a  great  arm- 
ful of  good,  fat  pine-knots,  she  was  so  overcome  as  to  place  her  hand  under  his 
chin,  look  him  fully  in  the  face,  and  declare  if  he  wasn't  a  man,  there  wasn't  one 
in  this  wide,  wide  world. 

Such  was  the  course  of  his  true  love  when  its  smoothness  suffered  that  inter- 
ruption which  so  strangely  obtrudes  itself  among  the  fondest  affairs  of  the  heart. 
Miss  Susan  had  threatened  so  often  without  fulfilment  to  give  information  to  their 
mother,  that  he  had  begun  to  presume  there  was  little  or  no  danger  from  that 
quarter.  Besides,  Mr.  Watts  had  now  grown  so  old  and  manlike  that  he  was  get- 
ting to  be  without  apprehension  from  any  quarter.  He  reflected  that  within  a  few 
weeks  more  he  would  be  fourteen  years  old,  when  legal  rights  would  accrue.  De- 
termining not  to  choose  any  "gardzeen,"  it  would  follow  that  he  must  become  his 
own.  Yet  he  did  not  intend  to  act  with  unnecessary  notoriety.  His  plans  were, 
to  consummate  his  union  on  the  very  day  he  should  be  fourteen  ;  but  to  do  so 
clandestinely,  and  then  run  away,  not  stopping  until  he  should  get  with  his  bride 
plump  into  Vermont.  For  even  the  bravest  find  it  necessary  sometimes  to  retreat. 

Of  the  practicability  of  this  plan  he  had  no  doubt,  because  he  knew  that  Miss 


NIPPED    IN    THE    BUD.  213 

Wilkins  had  five  hundred  dollars  in  hard  cash  —  a  whole  stocking  full.  This  sum 
seemed  to  him  immensely  adequate  for  their  support  in  becoming  style  for  an  in- 
definitely long  period  of  time. 

As  the  day  of  his  majority  approached,  he  grew  more  and  more  reserved  in  his 
intercourse  with  his  family.  This  was  scarcely  to  be  avoided  now,  when  he  was 
already  beginning  to  consider  himself  as  not  one  of  them.  If  his  conscience  ever 
upbraided  him  as  he  looked  upon  his  toiling  mother  and  his  helpless  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  knew  that  he  alone  was  to  rise  into  luxury,  while  they  were  to  be  left 
in  their  lowly  estate,  he  reflected  that  it  was  a  selfish  world  at  best,  and  that  every 
man  must  take  care  of  himself.  But  one  day,  after  a  season  of  unusual  reserve, 
and  when  he  had  behaved  to  Miss  Susan  in  a  way  which  she  considered  outrage- 
ously supercilious,  the  latter  availed  herself  of  his  going  into  the  village,  fulfilled 
her  threat,  and  gave  her  mother  full  information  of  the  state  of  his  feelings.  That 
resolute  woman  was  in  the  act  of  ironing  a  new  homespun  frock  she  had  just  made 
for  Susan. 

She  laid  down  her  iron,  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and  looked  up  at  Susan. 

"  Susan,  don't  be  foolin'  'long  o'  me." 

"  Ma,  I  tell  you  it's  the  truth." 

"  Susan,  do  you  want  me  to  believe  that  Tom's  a  fool  ?  I  know'd  the  child 
didn't  have  no  great  deal  of  sense  ;  but  I  didn't  think  he  was  a  clean-gone 
fool."  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  we  lives  and  larns.  But,  bless  me,  it  won't  do  to  tarry  here.  Susan, 
have  that  frock  ironed  all  right,  stiff  and  starch,  by  the  time  I  git  back.  I  sha'n't 
be  gone  long." 

The  lady  arose,  and,  without  putting  on  her  bonnet,  walked  rapidly  down  the 
streets. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for,  Mrs.  Watts  ?  "  inquired  an  acquaintance  whom  she 
met  on  her  way. 

"  I'm  a-looking  for  a  person  of  the  name  of  Mr.  Watts,"  she  answered,  and 
rushed  madly  on.  The  acquaintance  hurried  home  ;  but  told  other  acquaintances, 
on  the  way,  that  the  Widow  Watts  have  lost  her  mind,  and  gone  ravin'  distracted. 
Soon  afterwards,  as  Mr.  Watts  was  slowly  returning,  his  mind  full  of  great  thoughts, 
and  his  head  somewhat  bowed,  he  suddenly  became  conscious  that  his  hat  was  re- 
moved, and  his  roach  rudely  seized.  Immediately  afterwards  he  found  himself 
carried  along  the  street,  his  head  foremost,  and  his  legs  and  feet  performing  the 
smallest  possible  part  in  the  act  of  locomotion.  The  villagers  looked  on  with 
wonder.  The  conclusion  was  universal.  Yes,  the  Widow  Watts  have  lost  her 
mind. 

When  she  had  reached  her  cabin  with  her  charge,  a  space  was  cleared  in  the 
middle,  by  removing  the  stools  and  the  children.  Then  Mr.  Watts  was  ordered  to 
remove  such  portions  of  his  attire  as  might  oppose  any  hindrance  whatever  to  the 
application  of  a  leather  strap  to  those  parts  of  his  person  which  his  mother  might 
select. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !  "  began  Mr.  Watts. 


2i4  NIPPED     IN    THE    BUD, 

"No  motherin'  o'  me,  sir.  Down  with  'em."  And  down  they  came;  and 
down  came  the  strap,  rapidly,  violently. 

"  Oh,  mammy,  mammy!  " 

"  Ah,  now  !  that  sounds  a  little  like  old  times,  when  you  used  to  be  a  boy,"  she 
exclaimed  in  glee,  as  the  sounds  were  repeated  amid  the  unslackened  descent  of 
the  strap.  Mrs.  Watts  seemed  disposed  to  carry  on  a  lively  conversation  during 
this  flagellation.  She  joked  her  son  pleasantly  about  Miss  Wilkins,  inquired  when 
it  was  to  be  and  who  was  to  be  invited  ?  Oh,  no  !  she  forgot  it  was  not  to  be  a 
big  wedding,  but  a  private  one.  But  how  long  were  they  going  to  be  gone  before 
they  would  make  a  visit  ?  But  Mr.  Watts  not  only  could  not  see  the  joke,  but  was 
not  able  to  join  in  the  conversation  at  all,  except  to  continue  to  scream  louder  and 
louder,  "  Oh,  mammy,  mammy !  "  Mrs.  Watts,  finding  him  not  disposed  to  be 
talkative,  except  in  mere  ejaculatory  remarks,  appealed  to  little  Jack,  and  Mary 
Jane,  and  Polly  Ann,  and  to  all,  down  even  to  the  baby.  She  asked  them,  Did 
they  know  that  Buddy  Tommy  were  a  man  grown,  and  were  going  to  git  married 
and  have  a  wife,  and  then  go  away  off  yonder  to  the  Vermontes  ?  Little  Jack,  and 
Polly  Ann,  and  baby,  and  all,  evidently  did  not  precisely  understand  ;  for  they  all 
cried  and  laughed  tumultuously. 

How  long  this  exercise,  varied  as  it  was  by  most  animated  conversation,  might 
have  continued  if  the  mother  had  not  become  exhausted,  there  is  no  calculating. 
Things  were  fast  approaching  that  condition  when  the  son  declared  that  his  mother 
would  kill  him  if  she  didn't  stop. 

"That,"  she  answered  between  breaths,  "is — what  —  I  —  aims  —  to  do  —  if 
-  I  can't  git  it  —  all  —  all  —  every  —  spang  —  passel  —  outen  you." 

Tom  declared  that  it  was  all  gone. 

"  Is  you  —  a  man  —  or  —  is  you  —  a  boy  ? " 

"Boy!  boy!  mammy!"  cried  Tom.  "Let  me  up,  mammy  —  and  —  I'll  be  a 
boy  —  as  long — as  I  live." 

She  let  him  up. 

"  Susan,  whar's  that  frock  ?  Ah,  there  it  is.  Lookee  here.  Here's  your  clo'es, 
my  man.  Mary  Jane,  put  away  them  pantaloonses." 

Tom  was  making  ready  to  resume  the  frock.  But  Susan  remonstrated.  It 
wouldn't  look  right,  now  ;  and  she  would  go  Tom's  security  that  he  wouldn't  be  a 
man  any  more. 

He  was  cured.  From  being  an  ardent  lover,  he  grew  to  become  a  hearty  hater 
of  the  principal  of  Dukesborough  Female  Institution,  the  more  implacable  upon 
his  hearing  that  she  had  laughed  immoderately  at  his  whipping.  Before  many 
months  she  removed  from  the  village  ;  and  when,  two  years  afterwards,  a  rumor 
(whether  true  or  not  we  never  knew)  came  that  she  was  dead,  Tom  was  accused  of 
being  gratified  by  the  news.  Nor  did  he  deny  it. 

"  Well,  fellers,"  said  he,  "  I  know  it  weren't  right  ;  but  I  couldn't  keep  from 
being  glad,  if  it  had  a-kilt  me." 

RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON. 


TO    ROBERT    AINSLIE.—  THE    ADVENT    OF    PEACE.       215 


TO     ROBERT     AINSLIE. 

THERE  is  one  thing  for  which  I  set  great  store  by  you  as  a  friend,  and  it  is 
this  —  that  I  have  not  a  friend  upon  earth,  besides  yourself,  to  whom  I  can  talk 
nonsense  without  forfeiting  some  degree  of  his  esteem.  Now  to  one  like  me,  who 
never  cares  for  speaking  any  thing  else  but  nonsense,  such  a  friend  as  you  is  an  in- 
valuable treasure.  I  was  never  a  rogue,  but  have  been  a  fool  all  my  life  ;  and,  in 
spite  of  all  my  endeavors,  I  see  now  plainly  that  I  shall  never  be  wise.  Now  it  re- 
joices my  heart  to  have  met  with  such  a  fellow  as  you,  who,  though  you  are  not 
just  such  a  hopeless  fool  as  I,  yet  I  trust  you  will  never  listen  so  much  to  the 
temptations  of  the  devil  as  to  grow  so  very  wise  that  you  will  in  the  least  disre- 
spect an  honest  fellow  because  he  is  a  fool.  In  short,  I  have  set  you  down  as  the 
staff  of  my  old  age,  when  the  whole  list  of  my  friends  will,  after  a  decent  share  of 
pity,  have  forgot  me. 

Though  in  the  morn  comes  sturt  and  strife, 

Yet  joy  may  come  at  noon  ; 
And  I  hope  to  live  a  merry,  merry  life, 

When  a'  thir  days  are  done. 

Write  me  soon,  were  it  but  a  few  lines  just  to  tell  me  how  that  good,  sagacious 
man,  your  father,  is  —  that  kind,  dainty  body,  your  mother  —  that  strapping  chiel, 
your  brother  Douglas  —  and  my  friend  Rachel,  who  is  as  far  before  Rachel  of  old, 
as  she  was  before  her  blear-eyed  sister  Leah. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


THE     ADVENT     OF     PEACE. 

THE  times  that  tried  men's  souls  are  over,  and  the  greatest  and  completest 
revolution  the  world  ever  knew,  gloriously  and  happily  accomplished. 

But  to  pass  from  the  extremes  of  danger  to  safety,  from  the  tumult  of  war  to 
the  tranquillity  of  peace,  —  though  sweet  in  contemplation,  requires  a  gradual  com- 
posure of  the  senses  to  receive  it.  Even  calmness  has  the  power  of  stunning,  when 
it  opens  too  instantly  upon  us.  The  long  and  raging  hurricane  that  should  cease 
in  a  moment  would  leave  us  in  a  state  rather  of  wonder  than  enjoyment  ;  and  some 
moments  of  recollection  must  pass  before  we  could  be  capable  of  tasting  the  felicity 
of  repose.  There  are  but  few  instances  in  which  the  mind  is  fitted  for  sudden 
transitions  ;  it  takes  in  its  pleasures  by  reflection  and  comparison,  and  those  must 
have  time  to  act  before  the  relish  for  new  scenes  is  complete. 

In  the  present  case,  the  mighty  magnitude  of  the  object,  the  various  uncertain- 


216  THE    ADVENT    OF    PEACE. 

ties  of  fate  it  has  undergone,  the  numerous  and  complicated  dangers  we  have  suf- 
fered or  escaped,  the  eminence  we  now  stand  on,  and  the  vast  prospect  before  us, 
must  all  conspire  to  impress  us  with  contemplation. 

To  see  it  in  our  power  to  make  a  world  happy,  to  teach  mankind  the  art  of 
being  so,  to  exhibit  on  the  theater  of  the  universe  a  character  hitherto  unknown, 
and  to  have,  as  it  were,  a  new  creation  entrusted  to  our,  hands,  are  honors  that 
command  reflection,  and  can  neither  be  too  highly  estimated,  nor  too  gratefully 
received. 

In  this  pause  then  of  reflection,  while  the  storm  is  ceasing,  and  the  long  agitated 
mind  vibrating  to  a  rest,  let  us  look  back  on  the  scenes  we  have  passed,  and  learn 
from  experience  what  is  yet  to  be  done. 

Never,  I  say,  had  a  country  so  many  openings  to  happiness  as  this.  Her  set- 
ting out  in  life,  like  the  rising  of  a  fair  morning,  was  unclouded  and  promising. 
Her  cause  was  good.  Her  principles  just  and  liberal.  Her  temper  serene  and 
firm.  Her  conduct  regulated  by  the  wisest  steps,  and  everything  about  her  wore 
the  mark  of  honor.  It  is  not  every  country  (perhaps  there  is  not  another  in  the 
world)  that  can  boast  so  fair  an  origin.  Even  the  first  settlement  of  America  cor- 
responds with  the  character  of  the  revolution.  Rome,  once  the  proud  mistress  of 
the  universe,  was  originally  a  band  of  ruffians.  Plunder  and  rapine  made  her  rich, 
and  her  oppression  of  millions  made  her  great.  But  America  need  never  be 
ashamed  to  tell  her  birth,  nor  relate  the  stages  by  which  she  rose  to  empire. 

The  remembrance  then  of  what  is  past,  if  it  operates  rightly,  must  inspire  her 
with  the  most  laudable  of  all  ambitions,  that  of  adding  to  the  fair  fame  she  began 
with.  The  world  has  seen  her  great  in  adversity ;  struggling,  without  a  thought 
of  yielding,  beneath  accumulated  difficulties,  bravely,  nay,  proudly  encountering 
distress,  and  rising  in  resolution  as  the  storm  increased.  All  this  is  justly  due  to 
her,  for  her  fortitude  has  merited  the  character.  Let  then  the  world  see  that  she 
can  bear  prosperity  ;  and  that  her  honest  virtue  in  time  of  peace  is  equal  to  the 
bravest  virtue  in  time  of  war. 

She  is  now  descending  to  the  scenes  of  quiet  and  domestic  life,  —  not  under 
the  cypress  shade  of  disappointment,  but  to  enjoy,  in  her  own  land,  and  under  her 
own  vine,  the  sweet  of  her  labors,  and  the  reward  of  her  toil.  In  this  situation 
may  she  never  forget  that  a  fair  national  reputation  is  of  as  much  importance  as 
independence,  that  it  possesses  a  charm  that  wins  upon  the  world,  and  makes  even 
enemies  civil,  that  it  gives  a  dignity  which  is  often  superior  to  power,  and  com- 
mands reverence  where  pomp  and  splendor  fail. 

THOMAS  PAINE. 


HOMER'S    INVENTIVE    POWER. 


217 


HOMER'S     INVENTIVE     POWER. 


:  ON  whatever  side  we  contemplate  Homer,  what  principally  strikes  us  is  his  in- 
vention. It  is  that  which  forms  the  character  of  each  part  of  his  work  ;  and  ac- 
cordingly we  find  it  to  have  made  his  fable  more  extensive  and  copious  than  any 
other,  his  manners  more  lively  and  strongly  marked,  his  speeches  more  affecting 
and  transporting,  his  sentiments  more  warm  and  sublime,  his  images  and  descrip- 
tions more  full  and  animated,  his  expression  more  raised  and  daring,  and  his  num- 
bers more  rapid  and  various.  I  hope,  in  what  has  been  said  of  Virgil,  with  regard 
to  any  of  these  heads,  I  have  no  way  derogated  from  his  character.  Nothing  is 
more  absurd  or  endless,  than  the  common  method  of  comparing  eminent  writers 
by  an  opposition  of  particular  passages  in  them,  and  forming  a  judgment  from 
thence  of  their  merit  upon  the  whole.  We  ought  to  have  a  certain  knowledge  of 
the  principal  character  and  distinguished  excellence  of 
each  :  it  is  in  that  we  are  to  consider  him,  and  in  propor- 
tion to  his  degree  in  that  we  are  to  admire  him.  No 
author  or  man  ever  excelled  all  the  world  in  more  than 
one  faculty  :  and  as  Homer  has  done  this  in  invention, 
Virgil  has  in  judgment.  Not  that  we  are  to  think  Homer 
wanted  judgment,  because  Virgil  had  it  in  a  more  emi- 
nent degree  ;  or  that  Virgil  wanted  invention,  because 
Homer  possessed  a  larger  share  of  it  :  each  of  these 
great  authors  had  more  of  both  than  perhaps  any  man 
besides,  and  are  only  said  to  have  less  in  comparison 
with  one  another.  Homer  was  the  greater  genius ; 
Virgil,  the  better  artist.  In  one  we  most  admire  the 
man  ;  in  the  other,  the  work.  Homer  hurries  and  trans- 
ports us  with  a  commanding  impetuosity  ;  Virgil  leads  us 
with  an  attractive  majesty  :  Homer  scatters  with  a  gen- 
erous profusion  ;  Virgil  bestows  with  a  careful  magnificence  :  Homer,  like  the  Nile, 
pours  out  his  riches  with  a  boundless  overflow  ;  Virgil,  like  a  river  in  its  banks, 
with  a  gentle  and  constant  stream.  When  we  behold  their  battles,  methinks  the 
two  poets  resemble  the  heroes  they  celebrate  :  Homer,  boundless  and  irresistible 
as  Achilles,  bears  all  before  him,  and  shines  more  and  more  as  the  tumult  increases  ; 
Virgil,  calmly  daring  like  ./Eneas,  appears  undisturbed  in  the  midst  of  the  action  ; 
disposes  all  about  him,  and  conquers  with  tranquillity.  And  when  we  look  upon  their 
machines,  Homer  seems  like  his  own  Jupiter  in  his  terrors,  shaking  Olympus, 
scattering  the  lightnings,  and  firing  the  heavens  ;  Virgil,  like  the  same  power  in 
his  benevolence,  counselling  with  the  gods,  laying  plans  for  empires,  and  regularly 
ordering  his  whole  creation. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


(Bust 


HOMER. 
British  Museum,  London.) 


2i8  TO     H.     S.      WILLIAMS. 


TO     H.     S.     WILLIAMS. 

.  .  .  I  could  not  help  wondering  whether  Cornhill  will  ever  change  for  me, 
as  Oxford  has  changed  for  you.  I  have  some  pleasant  associations  connected  with 
it  now  —  will  these  alter  their  character  some  day  ? 

Perhaps  they  may  —  though  I  have  faith  to  the  contrary,  because,  I  think,  I  do 
not  exaggerate  my  partialities  ;  I  think  I  take  faults  along  with  excellences  — 
blemishes  together  with  beauties.  And,  besides,  in  the  matter  of  friendship,  I  have 
observed  that  disappointment  here  arises  chiefly,  not  from  liking  our  friends  too 
well,  or  thinking  of  them  too  highly,  but  rather  from  an  over-estimate  of  their  lik- 
ing for  and  opinion  of  us;  and  that  if  we  guard  ourselves  with  sufficient  scrupu- 
lousness of  care  from  error  in  this  direction,  and  can  be  content  and  even  happy  to 
give  more  affection  that  we  receive  —  can  make  just  comparison  of  circumstances, 
and  be  severely  accurate  in  drawing  inferences  thence,  and  never  let  self-love  blind 
our  eyes,  —  I  think  we  may  manage  to  get  through  life  with  consistency  and  con- 
stancy, unembittered  by  that  misanthropy  which  springs  from  revulsions  of  feeling. 
All  this  sounds  a  little  metaphysical,  but  it  is  good  sense  if  you  consider  it.  The 
moral  of  it  is,  that  if  we  would  build  on  a  sure  foundation  in  friendship,  we  must 
love  our  friends  for  their  sakes  rather  than  for  our  own  ;  we  must  look  at  their 
truth  to  themselves,  full  as  much  as  their  truth  to  us.  In  the  latter  case,  every 
wound  to  self-love  would  be  a  cause  of  coldness ;  in  the  former,  only  some  painful 
change  in  the  friend's  character  and  disposition  —  some  fearful  breach  in  his  alle- 
giance to  his  better  self —  could  alienate  the  heart.  .  .  . 

CHARLOTTE  BRONTE. 


MR.     CASAUBON'S     ROMANCE. 

MY  DEAR  Miss  BROOKE  :  —  I  have  your  guardian's  permission  to  address  you 
on  a  subject  than  which  I  have  none  more  at  heart.  I  am  not,  I  trust,  mistaken  in 
the  recognition  of  some  deeper  correspondence  than  that  of  date,  in  the  fact  that  a 
consciousness  of  need  in  my  own  life  had  arisen  contemporaneously  with  the  pos- 
sibility of  my  becoming  acquainted  with  you.  For  in  the  first  hour  of  meeting 
you,  I  had  an  impression  of  your  eminent  and  perhaps  exclusive  fitness  to  supply 
that  need  (connected,  I  may  say,  with  such  activity  of  the  affections  as  even  the 
preoccupations  of  a  work  too  special  to  be  abdicated  could  not  uninterruptedly  dis- 
simulate) ;  and  each  succeeding  opportunity  for  observation  has  given  the  impres- 
sion an  added  depth  by  convincing  me  more  emphatically  of  that  fitness  which  I 
had  preconceived,  and  thus  evoking  more  decisively  those  affections  to  which  I 
have  but  now  referred.  Our  conversations  have,  I  think,  made  sufficiently  clear  to 


MR.     CASAUBON' S    ROMANCE. 


219 


you  the  tenor  of  my  life  and  purposes,  —  a  tenor  unsuited,  I  am  aware,  to  the  com- 
moner order  of  minds.  But  I  have  discerned  in  you  an  elevation  of  thought  and  a 
capability  of  devotedness,  which  I  had  hitherto  not  conceived  to  be  compatible 
either  with  the  early  bloom  of  youth  or  with  those  graces  of  sex  that  may  be  said 
at  once  to  win  and  to  confer  distinction  when  combined,  as  they  notably  are  in  you, 
with  the  mental  qualities  above  indicated.  It  was,  I  confess,  beyond  my  hope  to 
meet  with  this  rare  combination  of  elements  both  solid  and  attractive,  adapted  to 
supply  aid  in  graver  labors  and  to  cast  a  charm  over  vacant  hours ;  and  but  for  the 
event  of  my  introduction  to  you  (which,  let  me  again  say,  I  trust  not  to  be  super- 
ficially coincident  with  foreshadowing  needs,  but  providentially  related  thereto  as 
stages  toward  the  completion  of  a  life's  plan),  I  should  presumably  have  gone  on 
to  the  last  without  any  attempt  to  lighten  my  solitariness  by  a  matrimonial  union. 

Such,  my  dear  Miss  Brooke,  is  the  accurate  statement  of  my  feelings;  and  I  rely 
on  your  kind  indulgence  in  venturing  now  to  ask  you  how  far  your  own  are  of  a 
nature  to  confirm  my  happy  presentiment.  To  be  accepted  by  you  as  your  hus- 
band and  the  earthly  guardian  of  your  welfare,  I  should  regard  as  the  highest  of 
providential  gifts.  In  return,  I  can  at  least  offer  you  an  affection  hitherto  un- 
wasted,  and  the  faithful  consecration  of  a  life  which,  however  short  in  the  sequel, 
has  no  backward  pages  whereon,  if  you  choose  to  turn  them,  you  will  find  records 
such  as  might  justly  cause  you  either  bitterness  or  shame.  I  wait  the  expression 
of  your  sentiments  with  an  anxiety  which  it  would  be  the  part  of  wisdom  (were  it 
possible)  to  divert  by  a  more  arduous  labor  than  usual.  But  in  this  order  of  ex- 
perience I  am  still  young,  and  in  looking  forward  to  an  unfavorable  possibility,  I 
cannot  but  feel  that  resignation  to  solitude  will  be  more  difficult  after  the  tempo- 
rary illumination  of  hope.  In  any  case,  I  shall  remain, 

Yours,  with  sincere  devotion, 

EDWARD  CASAUBON. 


MY  DEAR  MR.  CASAUBON  :  —  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  loving  me,  and 
thinking  me  worthy  to  be  your  wife.  I  can  look  forward  to  no  better  happiness 
than  that  which  would  be  one  with  yours.  If  I  said  more,  it  would  only  be  the 
same  thing  written  out  at  greater  length,  for  I  cannot  now  dwell  on  any  other 
thought  than  that  I  may  be  through  life 

Yours  devotedly,    DOROTHEA  BROOKE. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


220 


THE     WHITE    ROSE     ROAD, 


THE    BROAD   OPEN    COUNTRY. 


THE     WHITE     ROSE     ROAD. 


DRIVING  through  the  long  woodland  way,  shaded  and  chilly  when  you  are  out 
of  the  sun  ;  across  the  Great  Works  River  and  its  pretty  elm-grown  intervale  ; 
across  the  short  bridges  of  brown  brooks  ;  delayed  now  and  then  by  the  sight  of 
ripe  strawberries  in  sunny  spots  by  the  roadside,  one  comes  to  a  higher  open  coun- 
try, where  farm  joins  farm,  and  the  cleared  fields  lie  all  along  the  highway,  while 
the  woods  are  pushed  back  a  good  distance  on  either  hand.  The  wooded  hills, 
bleak  here  and  there  with  granite  ledges,  rise  beyond.  The  houses  are  beside  the 
road,  with  green  door-yards  and  large  barns,  almost  empty  now,  and  with  wide 
doors  standing  open,  as  if  they  were  already  expecting  the  hay  crop  to  be  brought 
in.  The  tall  green  grass  is  waving  in  the  fields  as  the  wind  goes  over,  and 
there  is  a  fragrance  of  whiteweed  and  ripe  strawberries  and  clover  blowing 
through  the  sunshiny  barns,  with  their  lean  sides  and  their  festoons  of  brown, 
dusty  cobwebs  ;  dull,  comfortable  creatures  they  appear  to  imaginative  eyes,  wait- 


THE     WHITE    ROSE    ROAD.  221 

ing  hungrily  for  their  yearly  meal.  The  eave-swallows  are  teasing  their  sleepy 
shapes,  like  the  birds  which  flit  about  great  beasts  ;  gay,  movable,  irreverent,  almost 
derisive,  those  barn  swallows  fly  to  and  fro  in  the  still,  clear  air.  The  noise  of  our 
wheels  brings  fewer  faces  to  the  windows  than  usual,  and  we  lose  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  some  of  our  friends  who  are  apt  to  be  looking  out,  and  to  whom  we  like  to 
say  good-day.  Some  funeral  must  be  taking  place,  or  perhaps  the  women  may 
have  gone  out  into  the  fields.  It  is  hoeing-time  and  strawberry-time,  and  already 
we  have  seen  some  of  the  younger  women  at  work  among  the  corn  and  potatoes. 
One  sight  will  be  charming  to  remember.  On  a  green  hillside  sloping  to  the  west, 
near  one  of  the  houses,  a  thin  little  girl  was  working  away  lustily  with  a  big  hoe  on  a 
patch  of  land  perhaps  fifty  feet  by  twenty.  There  were  all  sorts  of  things  growing 
there,  as  if  a  child's  fancy  had  made  the  choice,  —  straight  rows  of  turnips  and  car- 
rots and  beets,  a  little  of  everything,  one  might  say  ;  but  the  only  touch  of  color 
was  from  a  long  border  of  useful  sage  in  full  bloom  of  dull  blue,  on  the  upper  side. 
I  am  sure  this  was  called  Katy's  or  Becky's  piece  by  the  elder  members  of  the 
family.  One  can  imagine  how  the  young  creature  had  planned  it  in  the  spring, 
and  persuaded  the  men  to  plow  and  harrow  it,  and  since  then  had  stoutly  done  all 
the  work  herself,  and  meant  to  send  the  harvest  of  the  piece  to  market,  and 
pocket  her  honest  gains,  as  they  came  in,  for  some  great  end.  She  was  as  thin  as 
a  grasshopper,  this  busy  little  gardener,  and  hardly  turned  to  give  us  a  glance,  as  we 
drove  slowly  up  the  hill  close  by.  The  sun  will  brown  and  dry  her  like  a  spear 
of  grass  on  that  hot  slope,  but  a  spark  of  fine  spirit  is  in  the  small  body,  and  I 
wish  her  a  famous  crop.  I  hate  to  say  that  the  piece  looked  backward,  all  except 
the  sage,  and  that  it  was  a  heavy  bit  of  land  for  the  clumsy  hoe  to  pick  at.  The 
only  puzzle  is,  what  she  proposes  to  do  with  so  long  a  row  of  sage.  Yet  there  may 
be  a  large  family  with  a  downfall  of  measles  yet  ahead,  and  she  does  not  mean  to 
be  caught  without  sage-tea. 

Along  this  road  every  one  of  the  old  farmhouses  has  at  least  one  tall  bush  of 
white  roses  by  the  door,  —  a  most  lovely  sight,  with  buds  and  blossoms,  and  un- 
vexed  green  leaves.  I  wish  that  I  knew  the  history  of  them,  and  whence  the  first 
bush  was  brought.  Perhaps  from  England  itself,  like  a  red  rose  that  I  know  in 
Kittery,  and  the  new  shoots  from  the  root  were  given  to  one  neighbor  after  another 
all  through  the  district.  The  bushes  are  slender,  but  they  grow  tall  without  climb- 
ing against  the  wall,  and  sway  to  and  fro  in  the  wind  with  a  grace  of  youth  and  an 
inexpressible  charm  of  beauty.  How  many  lovers  must  have  picked  them  on  Sun- 
day evenings,  in  all  the  bygone  years,  and  carried  them  along  the  roads  or  by  the 
pasture  footpaths,  hiding  them  clumsily  under  their  Sunday  coats  if  they  caught 
sight  of  any  one  coming.  Here,  too,  where  the  sea  wind  nips  many  a  young  life 
before  its  prime,  how  often  the  white  roses  have  been  put  into  paler  hands,  and 
withered  there ! 


We  met  now  and  then  a  man  or  woman,  who  stopped  to  give  us  hospitable 
greeting  ;  but  there  was  no  staying  for  visits,  lest  the  daylight  might  fail  us.     It 


222  THE     WHITE    ROSE    ROAD. 

was  delightful  to  find  this  old-established  neighborhood  so  thriving  and  populous, 
for  a  few  days  before  I  had  driven  over  three  miles  of  road,  and  passed  only  one 
house  that  was  tenanted,  and  six  cellars  or  crumbling  chimneys  where  good  farm- 
houses had  been,  the  lilacs  blooming  in  solitude,  and  the  fields,  cleared  with  so 
much  difficulty  a  century  or  two  ago,  all  going  back  to  the  original  woodland  from 
which  they  were  won.  What  would  the  old  farmers  say  to  see  the  fate  of  their 
worthy  bequest  to  the  younger  generation  ?  They  would  wag  their  heads  sorrow- 
fully, with  sad  foreboding. 


The  very  fields  looked  busy  with  their  early  summer  growth,  the  horses  began 
to  think  of  the  clack  of  the  oat-bin  cover,  and  we  were  hurried  along  between  the 
silvery  willows  and  the  rustling  alders,  taking  time  to  gather  a  handful  of  stray-away 
conserve  roses  by  the  roadside;  and  where  the  highway  made  a  long  bend  eastward 
among  the  farms,  two  of  us  left  the  carriage,  and  followed  a  footpath  along  the 
green  river  bank  and  through  the  pastures,  coming  out  to  the  road  again  only  a 
minute  later  than  the  horses.  I  believe  that  it  is  an  old  Indian  trail  followed  from  the 
salmon  falls  farther  down  the  river,  where  the  up-country  Indians  came  to  dry  the 

plentiful  fish  for  their  winter  supplies.  I  have  traced 
the  greater  part  of  this  deep-worn  footpath,  which  goes 
straight  as  an  arrow  across  the  country,  the  first  day's 
trail  being  from  the  falls  (where  Mason's  settlers  came 
in  1627,  and  built  their  Great  Works  of  a  saw-mill  with 
a  gang  of  saws,  and  presently  a  grist  mill  beside)  to 
Emery's  Bridge.  I  should  like  to  follow  the  old  foot- 
path still  farther.  I  found  part  of  it  by  accident  a  long 
time  ago.  Once,  as  you  came  close  to  the  river,  you 
were  sure  to  find  fishermen  scattered  along,  —  some- 
times I  myself  have  been  discovered  ;  but  it  is  not  much 
use  to  go  fishing  any  more.  If  some  public-spirited 
person  would  kindly  be  the  Frank  Buckland  of  New 
England,  and  try  to  have  the  laws  enforced  that  protect 
the  inland  fisheries,  he  would  do  his  country  great  ser- 
vice. Years  ago,  there  were  so  many  salmon  that,  as  an  enthusiastic  old  friend 
once  assured  me,  "  You  could  walk  across  on  them  below  the  falls  ;  "  but  now  they 
are  unknown,  simply  because  certain  substances  which  would  enrich  the  farms  are 
thrown  from  factories  and  tanneries  into  our  clear  New  England  streams.  Good 
river  fish  are  growing  very  scarce.  The  smelts,  and  bass,  and  shad  have  all  left 
this  upper  branch  of  the  Piscataqua,  as  the  salmon  left  it  long  ago,  and  the  supply 
of  one  necessary  sort  of  good  cheap  food  is  lost  to  a  growing  community,  for  the 
lack  of  a  little  thought  and  care  in  the  factory  companies  and  saw-mills,  and  the 
building  in  some  cases  of  fish-ways  over  the  dams.  I  think  that  the  need  of 
preaching  against  this  bad  economy  is  very  great.  The  sight  of  a  proud  lad  with 
a  string  of  undersized  trout  will  scatter  half  the  idlers  in  town  into  the  pastures 


MISS    MALONEY    ON    THE     CHINESE     QUESTION.         223 

next  day,  but  everybody  patiently  accepts  the  depopulation  of  a  fine  clear  river, 
where  the  tide  comes  fresh  from  the  sea  to  be  tainted  by  the  spoiled  stream,  which 
started  from  its  mountain  sources  as  pure  as  heart  could  wish.  Man  has  done  his 
best  to  ruin  the  world  he  lives  in,  one  is  tempted  to  say  at  impulsive  first  thought  ; 
but  after  all,  as  I  mounted  the  last  hill  before  reaching  the  village,  the  houses  took 
on  a  new  look  of  comfort  and  pleasantness  ;  the  fields  that  I  knew  so  well  were  a 
fresher  green  than  before,  the  sun  was  down,  and  the  provocations  of  the  day 
seemed  very  slight  compared  to  the  satisfaction.  I  believed  that  with  a  little  more 
time  we  should  grow  wiser  about  our  fish  and  other  things  beside. 

It  will  be  good  to  remember  the  white  rose  road  and  its  quietness  in  many  a 
busy  town  day  to  come.  As  I  think  of  these  slight  sketches,  I  wonder  if  they  will 
have  to  others  a  tinge  of  sadness;  but  I  have  seldom  spent  an  afternoon  so  full  of 
pleasure  and  fresh  and  delighted  consciousness  of  the  possibilities  of  rural  life. 

SARAH  OKNE  JEWETT. 


MISS    MALONEY    ON    THE    CHINESE    QUESTION. 

OCR  !  don't  be  talkin'.  Is  it  howld  on,  ye  say  ?  An'  didn't  I  howld  on  till  the 
heart  of  me  was  clane  broke  entirely,  and  me  wastin'  that  thin  ye  could  clutch  me 
wid  yer  two  hands.  To  think  o'  me  toilin'  like  a  nager  for  the  six  year  I've  been 
in  Ameriky  —  bad  luck  to  the  day  I  iver  left  the  owld  counthry  !  —  to  be  bate  by 
the  likes  o'  them  !  (faix,  an'  I'll  sit  down  when  I'm  ready,  so  I  will,  Ann  Ryan; 
an'  ye'd  better  be  listenin'  than  drawin'  yer  remarks).  An'  is  it  meself,  with  five 
good  characters  from  respectable  places,  would  be  herdin'  wid  the  haythens  ?  The 
saints  forgive  me,  but  I'd  be  buried  alive  sooner'n  put  up  wid  it  a  day  longer. 
Sure,  an'  I  was  the  granehorn  not  to  be  lavin'  at  once-t  when  the  missus  kim  into 
me  kitchen  wid  her  perlaver  about  the  new  waiter-man  which  was  brought  out  from 
Californy.  "  He'll  be  here  the  night,"  says  she.  "  And,  Kitty,  it's  meself  looks 
to  you  to  be  kind  and  patient  wid  him  ;  for  he's  a  furriner,"  says  she,  a  kind  o' 
lookin'  off.  "  Sure,  an'  it's  little  I'll  hinder  nor  interfare  wid  him,  nor  any  other, 
mum,"  says  I,  a  kind  o'  stiff  ;  for  I  minded  me  how  these  French  waiters,  wid  their 
paper  collars  and  brass  rings  on  their  fingers,  isn't  company  for  no  gurril  brought 
up  dacent  and  honest.  Och  !  sorra  a  bit  I  knew  what  was  comin*  till  the  missus 
walked  into  me  kitchen,  smilin',  and  says,  kind  o'  schared,  "  Here's  Fing  Wing, 
Kitty ;  an'  ye'll  have  too  much  sinse  to  mind  his  bein'  a  little  strange."  Wid  that 
she  shoots  the  doore;  and  I,  misthrustin'  if  I  was  tidied  up  sufficient  for  me  fine 
buy  wid  his  paper  collar,  looks  up,  and  —  Howly  fathers  !  may  I  niver  brathe 
another  breath,  but  there  stud  a  rale  haythen  Chineser,  a-grinnin'  like  he'd  just 
come  off  a  tay-box.  If  ye'll  belave  me,  the  crayther  was  that  yeller  it  'ud  sicken  ye 
to  see  him  ;  and  sorra  stich  was  on  him  but  a  black  night-gown  over  his  trowsers, 
and  the  front  of  his  head  shaved  claner  nor  a  copper-biler,  and  a  black  tail  a-hang- 


224          MISS    MALONEY    ON    THE     CHINESE     QUESTION. 


THE   WAITER-MAN. 


in'  down  from  it  behind,  wid  his  two  feet  stook  into  the  haythenestest  shoes  ye 
ever  set  eyes  on.  Och !  but  I  was  up  stairs  afore  ye  could  turn  about,  a-givin'  the 
missus  warnin',  an'  only  stopt  wid  her  by  her  raisin'  me  wages  two  dollars,  an' 
playdin'  wid  me  how  it  was  a  Christian's  duty  to  bear  wid  haythens,  and  taitch  'em 
all  in  our  power  —  the  saints  save  us  !  Well,  the  ways  and  trials  I  had  wid  that 

Chineser,  Ann  Ryan,  I  couldn't  be 
tellin'.  Not  a  blissid  thing  cud  I  do, 
but  he'd  be  lookin'  on  wid  his  eyes 
cocked  up'ard  like  two  poomp-han- 
dles ;  an'  he  widdout  a  speck  or  smitch 
o'  whishkers  on  him,  an'  his  finger- 
nails full  a  yard  long.  But  it's  dyin' 
ye'd  be  to  see  the  missus  a-larnin' 
him,  an'  he  a-grinnin',  an'  waggin' 
his  pig-tail  (which  was  pieced  out 
long  wid  some  black  stoof,  the  hay- 
then  chate  !)  and  gettin'  into  her 
ways  wonderful  quick,  I  don't  deny, 
imitatin'  that  sharp,  ye'd  be  shur- 
prised,  an'  ketchin'  an'  copyin'  things 
the  best  of  us  will  do  a-hurried  wid 
work,  yet  don't  want  comin'  to  the  knowledge  o'  the  family  —  bad  luck  to  him  ! 

Is  it  ate  wid  him  ?  Arrah,  an'  would  I  be  sittin'  wid  a  haythen,  an'  he  a-atin' 
wid  drum-sticks?  —  yes,  an'  atin'  dogs  an'  cats  unknownst  to  me,  I  warrant  ye, 
which  it  is  the  custom  of  them  Chinesers,  till  the  thought  made  me  that  sick  I 
could  die.  An'  didn't  the  crayther  proffer  to  help  me  a  wake  ago  come  Toosday, 
an'  me  foldin'  down  me  clane  clothes  for  the  ironin',  an'  fill  his  haythen  mouth  wid 
water,  an'  afore  I  could  hinder,  squirrit  it  through  his  teeth  stret  over  the  best  linen 
tablecloth,  and  fold  it  up  tight,  as  innercent  now  as  a  baby,  the  derrity  baste  !  But 
the  worrest  of  all  was  the  copyin'  he'd  be  doin'  till  ye'd  be  dishtracted.  It's  yer- 
self  knows  the  tinder  feet  that's  on  me  since  ever  I've  bin  in  this  counthry.  Well, 
owin'  to  that,  I  fell  into  a  way  o'  slippin'  me  shoes  off  when  I'd  be  settin'  down  to 
pale  the  praties,  or  the  likes  o'  that ;  an'  do  ye  mind,  that  haythen  would  do  the 
same  thing  after  me  whiniver  the  missus  set  him  to  parin'  apples  or  tomaterses. 
The  saints  in  heaven  couldn't  ha'  made  him  belave  he  cud  kape  the  shoes  on  him 
when  he'd  be  palin'  any  thing. 

Did  I  lave  for  that  ?  Faix,  an'  I  didn't.  Didn't  he  get  me  into  throuble  wid 
my  missus,  the  haythen  !  Ye're  aware  yerself  how  the  boondles  comin'  in  from  the 
grocery  often  contains  more  'n  '11  go  into  any  thing  dacently.  So,  for  that  matter, 
I'd  now  and  then  take  out  a  sup  o'  sugar,  or  flour,  or  tay,  an'  wrap  it  in  paper,  and 
put  it  in  me  bit  of  a  box  tucked  under  the  ironin'-blanket,  the  how  it  cuddent  be 
bodderin'  any  one.  Well,  what  shud  it  be,  but  this  blessed  Sathurday  morn,  the 
missus  was  a-spakin'  pleasant  an'  respec'ful  wid  me  in  me  kitchen,  when  the  grocer 
buy  comes  in,  and  stands  fornenst  her  wid  his  boondles  ;  an'  she  motions  like  to 


TO    MRS.    JANE    LAWDER.  225 

Fing  Wing  (which  I  never  would  call  him  by  that  name  nor  any  other  but  just 
haythen)  —  she  motions  to  him,  she  does,  for  to  take  the  boondles,  an'  emty  out 
the  sugar  and  what  not  where  they  belongs.  If  ye'll  belave  me,  Ann  Ryan,  what 
did  that  blatherin'  Chineser  do  but  take  out  a  sup  o'  sugar,  an'  a  han'ful  o'  tay,  an' 
a  bit  o'  chaze,  right  afore  the  missus,  wrap  'em  into  bits  o'  paper,  an'  I  spacheless 
wid  shurprise,  an'  he  the  next  minute  up  wid  the  ironin'-blanket,  an'  pullin'  out  me 
box  wid  a  show  o'  bein'  sly  to  put  them  in.  Och  !  the  Lord  forgive  me,  but  I 
clutched  it,  an'  the  missus  sayin',  "  O,  Kitty  !  "  in  a  way  that  ud  cruddle  your  blood. 
"  He's  a  haythen  nager,"  says  I.  "  I've  found  yer  out,"  says  she.  "  I'll  arrist 
him,"  says  I.  "  It's  yerself  ought  to  be  arristid,"  says  she.  "  Yer  won't,"  says  I. 
"  I  will,"  says  she.  And  so  it  went,  till  she  give  me  such  sass  as  I  cuddent  take 
from  no  lady,  an'  I  give  her  warnin'  an'  left  that  instant,  an'  she  a-pointin'  to  the 
doore. 

MARY  MAPES  DODGE. 


TO     MRS.     JANE     LAWDER. 

.  .  .  It  is  probable  you  may  one  of  these  days  see  me  turned  into  a  perfect 
hunks,  and  as  dark  and  intricate  as  a  mouse-hole.  I  have  already  given  my  land- 
lady orders  for  an  entire  reform  in  the  state  of  my  finances.  I  declaim  against  hot 
suppers,  drink  less  sugar  in  my  tea,  and  check  my  grate  with  brick-bats.  Instead 
of  hanging  my  room  with  pictures,  I  intend  to  adorn  it  with  maxims  of  frugality. 
Those  will  make  pretty  furniture  enough,  and  won't  be  a  bit  too  expensive  ;  for  I 
shall  draw  them  all  out  with  my  own  hands,  and  my  landlady's  daughter  shall 
frame  them  with  the  parings  of  my  black  waistcoat.  Each  maxim  is  to  be  inscribed 
on  a  sheet  of  clean  paper,  and  wrote  with  my  best  pen,  of  which  the  following  will 
serve  as  a  specimen  :  "  Look  sharp  ; "  "  Mind  the  main  chance  ; "  Money  is  money 
now  ;  "  "  If  you  have  a  thousand  pounds,  you  can  put  your  hands  by  your  sides 
and  say  you  are  worth  a  thousand  pounds  every  day  of  the  year ;  "  "  Take  a  farth- 
ing from  a  hundred,  and  it  will  be  a  hundred  no  longer."  Thus,  which  way  soever 
I  turn  my  eyes  they  are  sure  to  meet  one  of  those  friendly  monitors ;  and  as  we 
are  told  of  an  actor  who  hung  his  room  round  with  looking-glass  to  correct  the  de- 
fects of  his  person,  my  apartment  shall  be  furnished  in  a  peculiar  manner,  to  cor- 
rect the  errors  of  my  mind. 

Faith  !  Madam,  I  heartily  wish  to  be  rich,  if  it  were  only  for  this  reason — to 
say  without  a  blush  how  much  I  esteem  you  ;  but  alas  !  I  have  many  a  fatigue  to 
encounter  before  that  happy  time  comes,  when  your  poor  old  simple  friend  may 
again  give  a  loose  to  the  luxuriance  of  his  nature,  sitting  by  Kilmore  fireside,  re- 
count the  various  adventures  of  a  hard-fought  life,  laugh  over  the  follies  of  the  day, 
join  his  flute  to  your  harpsicord,  and  forget  that  ever  he  starved  in  those  streets 
where  Butler  and  Otway  starved  before  him.  .  .  .  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


226  THE     DEATH    OF    LITTLE    NELL. 


THE     DEATH     OF     LITTLE     NELL. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free  from  trace  of  pain,  so 
fair  to  look  upon  !  She  seemed  a  creature  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  and  wait- 
ing for  the  breath  of  life  ;  not  one  who  had  lived  and  suffered  death. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell,  was  dead.  Her  little  bird  — 
a  poor  slight  thing  the  pressure  of  a  finger  would  have  crushed — was  stirring 
nimbly  in  its  cage  ;  and  the  strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was  mute  and 
motionless  forever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her  sufferings  and  fatigues  ?  All 
gone.  Sorrow  was  dead  indeed  in  her,  but  peace  and  perfect  happiness  were  born  ; 
imaged  in  her  tranquil  beauty  and  profound  repose. 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  this  change.  Yes.  The  old 
fireside  had  smiled  upon  that  sweet  face ;  it  had  passed,  like  a  dream,  through 
haunts  of  misery  and  care  —  there  had  been  the  same  mild  lovely  look.  So  shall 
we  know  the  angels,  in  their  majesty,  after  death. 

She  was  dead,  and  passed  all  help  or  need  of  it. 

It  is  not  in  this  world  that  Heaven's  justice  ends.  Think  what  earth  is,  com- 
pared to  the  world  to  which  her  young  spirit  has  winged  its  early  flight  ;  and 
say,  if  one  deliberate  wish  expressed  in  solemn  terms  above  this  bed  would  call 
her  back  to  life,  which  of  us  would  utter  it  ? 

In  that  calm  time,  when  outward  things  and  inward  thoughts  teem  with 
assurances  of  immortality,  and  worldly  hopes  and  fears  are  humbled  in  the  dust 
before  them  —  then,  with  tranquil  and  submissive  hearts  they  turned  away,  and 
left  the  child  with  God. 

Oh  !  it  is  hard  to  take  to  heart  the  lesson  that  such  deaths  will  teach,  but  let 
no  man  reject  it,  for  it  is  one  that  all  must  learn,  and  is  a  mighty  universal  truth. 

When  Death  strikes  down  the  innocent  and  young,  for  every  fragile  form  from 
which  he  lets  the  panting  spirit  free,  a  hundred  virtues  rise,  in  shapes  of  mercy, 
charity  and  love,  to  walk  the  world,  and  bless  it.  Of  every  tear  that  sorrowing 
mortals  shed  on  such  green  graves,  some  good  is  born,  some  gentler  nature  comes. 
In  the  Destroyer's  steps  there  spring  up  bright  creations  that  defy  his  power,  and 
his  dark  path  becomes  a  way  of  light  to  heaven. 

DICKENS. 


ON    AMERICAN    INSTITUTIONS. 


227 


ON     AMERICAN     INSTITUTIONS. 

MR.  CHAIRMAN  : — Viewed  from  the  standpoint  of  a  foreigner,  our  government 
may  be  said  to  be  the  feeblest  on  earth.  From  our  standpoint,  and  with  our  experi- 
ence it  is  the  mightiest.  But  why  would  a  foreigner  call  it  the  feeblest  ?  He  can 
point  out  a  half  dozen  ways  in  which  it  can  be  destroyed  without  violence.  Of 
course,  all  governments  may  be  overturned  by  the  sword  ;  but  there  are  several 
ways  in  which  our  government  may  be  annihilated  without  the  firing  of  a  gun. 

For  example,  if  the  people 
of  the  United  States  should  say, 
we  will  elect  no  Representatives 
to  the  House  of  Representatives. 
Of  course,  this  is  a  violent  sup- 
position ;  but  suppose  that  they 
do  not,  is  there  any  remedy  ? 
Does  our  Constitution  provide 
any  remedy  whatever  ?  In  two 
years  there  would  be  no  House 
of  Representatives  ;  of  course 
no  support  of  the  government, 
and  no  government.  Suppose, 
again,  the  States  should  say, 
through  their  Legislatures,  we 
will  elect  no  Senators.  Such 
abstention  alone  would  abso- 
lutely destroy  this  government ; 
and  our  system  provides  no  pro- 
cess of  compulsion  to  prevent  it. 

Again,  suppose  the  two 
H  ouses  were  assembled  in  their 
usual  order,  and  a  majority  of 
one  in  this  body  or  in  the  Senate 
should  firmly  band  themselves 

together  and  say,  we  will  vote  to  adjourn  the  moment  the  hour  of  meeting  arrives,  and 
continue  so  to  vote  at  every  session  during  our  two  years  of  existence  ;  the  govern- 
ment would  perish,  and  there  is  no  provision  of  the  Constitution  to  prevent  it.  Or 
again,  if  a  majority  of  one  of  either  body  should  declare  that  they  would  vote  down, 
and  did  vote  down,  every  bill  to  support  the  government  by  appropriations,  can  you 
find  in  the  whole  range  of  our  judicial  or  our  executive  authority  any  remedy  what- 
ever ?  A  Senator  or  a  member  of  this  House  is  free,  and  may  vote  "  no  "  on  every 
proposition.  Nothing  but  his  oath  and  his  honor  restrains  him.  Not  so  with 
executive  and  judicial  officers.  They  have  no  power  to  destroy  this  government. 


JAMES    ABRAM    GARFIELD. 


228  ON    THE     WAR. 

Let  them  travel  an  inch  beyond  the  line  of  the  law,  and  they  fall  within  the  power 
of  impeachment.  But,  against  the  people  who  create  Representatives  ;  against  the 
Legislatures  who  create  Senators  ;  against  Senators  and  Representatives  in  these 
Halls,  there  is  no  power  of  impeachment ;  there  is  no  remedy,  if,  by  abstention  or 
by  adverse  votes,  they  refuse  to  support  the  government. 

JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD. 


ON     THE     WAR. 

GENTLEMEN  : — I  am  not  insensible  to  the  patriotic  motives  which  prompted 
you  to  do  me  the  honor  to  invite  me  to  address  you,  on  this  occasion,  upon  the  mo- 
mentous issues  now  presented  in  the  condition  of  the  country.  With  a  heart  filled 
with  sadness  and  grief  I  comply  with  your  request. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  adoption  of  this  Federal  Constitution,  a  wide-spread 
conspiracy  exists  to  destroy  the  best  government  the  sun  of  heaven  ever  shed  its 
rays  upon.  Hostile  armies  are  now  marching  upon  the  Federal  capital,  with  a  view 
of  planting  a  revolutionary  flag  upon  its  dome.  .  .  .  The  boast  has  gone  forth 
by  the  secretary  of  war  of  this  revolutionary  government  that  on  the  first  day  of 
May  the  revolutionary  flag  shall  float  from  the  walls  of  the  Capitol  at  Washington, 
and  that  on  the  fourth  day  of  July  the  revolutionary  army  shall  hold  possession  of 
the  Hall  of  Independence.  The  simple  question  presented  to  us  is  whether  we 
will  wait  for  the  enemy  to  carry  out  this  boast  of  making  war  on  our  soil,  or 
whether  we  will  rush  as  one  man  to  the  defence  of  this  government,  and  its  capital, 
to  defend  it  from  the  hands  of  all  assailants  who  have  threatened  it.  Already  the 
piratical  flag  has  been  unfurled  against  the  commerce  of  the  United  States.  Let- 
ters of  marque  have  been  issued,  appealing  to  the  pirates  of  the  world  to  assemble 
under  that  revolutionary  flag,  and  commit  depredations  on  the  commerce  carried 
on  under  the  stars  and  stripes.  Hostile  batteries  have  been  planted  upon  its  for- 
tresses ;  custom-houses  have  been  established  ;  and  we  are  required  now  to  pay 
tribute  and  taxes  without  having  a  voice  in  making  the  laws  imposing  them,  or  hav- 
ing a  share  in  the  distribution  of  them  after  they  have  been  collected.  The  ques- 
tion is  whether  this  war  of  aggression  shall  proceed,  and  we  remain  with  folded 
arms  inactive  spectators,  or  whether  we  shall  meet  the  aggressors  at  the  threshold 
and  turn  back  the  tide. 

STEPHEN  ARNOLD  DOUGLAS. 


FOR    FREEDOM    OF    TRADE.  229 


FOR     FREEDOM     OF     TRADE. 

WITH  the  opportunity  of  unrestricted  exchange  of  these  products,  how  limitless 
the  horizon  of  our  possibilities  !  Let  American  adventurousness  and  genius  be 
free  upon  the  high  seas,  to  go  wherever  they  please  and  bring  back  whatever  they 
please,  and  the  oceans  will  swarm  with  American  sails,  and  the  land  will  laugh 
with  the  plenty  within  its  borders.  The  trade  of  Tyre  and  Sidon,  the  far  extend- 
ing commerce  of  the  Venetian  republic,  the  wealth-producing  traffic  of  the  Nether- 
lands, will  be  as  dreams  in  contrast  with  the  stupendous  reality  which  American 
enterprise  will  develop  in  our  own  generation.  Through  the  humanizing  influence 
of  the  trade  thus  encouraged,  I  see  nations  become  the  friends  of  nations,  and  the 
causes  of  war  disappear.  I  see  the  influence  of  the  great  republic  in  the  amelio- 
ration of  the  condition  of  the  poor  and  the  oppressed  in  every  land,  and  in  the  mod- 
eration of  the  arbitrariness  of  power.  Upon  the  wings  of  free  trade  will  be  carried 
the  seeds  of  free  government,  to  be  scattered  everywhere  to  grow  and  ripen  into 
harvests  of  free  peoples  in  every  nation  under  the  sun. 

FRANK  H.  HURD. 


JOHN     KEATS     TO     WILLIAM     REYNOLDS. 

BY  this  post  I  write  to  Rice,  who  will  tell  you  why  we  have  left  Shanklin,  and 
how  we  like  the  place.  I  have  indeed  scarcely  anything  else  to  say,  leading  so 
monotonous  a  life,  unless  I  was  to  give  you  a  history  of  sensations  and  day  night- 
mares. You  would  not  find  me  at  all  unhappy  in  it,  as  all  my  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings, which  are  of  the  selfish  nature,  home  speculations,  every  day  continue  to 
make  me  more  iron.  I  am  convinced  more  and  more,  every  day,  that  fine  writing 
is,  next  to  fine  doing,  the  top  thing  in  the  world  ;  the  "  Paradise  Lost  "  becomes 
a  greater  wonder.  The  more  I  know  what  my  diligence  may  in  time  probably 
effect,  the  more  does  my  heart  distend  with  pride  and  obstinacy.  I  feel  it  in  my 
power  to  become  a  popular  writer.  I  feel  it  in  my  power  to  refuse  the  poisonous 
suffrage  of  a  public.  My  own  being,  which  I  know  to  be,  becomes  of  more  conse- 
quence to  me  than  the  crowds  of  shadows  in  the  shape  of  men  and  women  that  in- 
habit a  kingdom.  The  soul  is  a  world  of  itself,  and  has  enough  to  do  in  its  own 
home.  Those  whom  I  know  already  and  who  have  grown  as  it  were  a  part  of  my- 
self, I  could  not  do  without ;  but  for  the  rest  of  mankind,  they  are  as  much  a 
dream  to  me  as  Milton's  "Hierarchies."  I  think  if  I  had  a  free  and  healthy  and 
lasting  organization  of  heart,  and  lungs  as  strong  as  an  ox,  so  as  to  be  able  to  bear 
unhurt  the  shock  of  extreme  thought  and  sensation  without  weariness,  I  could  pass 


230  MAS.     CARLYLE     TO    HER    HUSBAND. 

my  life  very  nearly  alone,  though  it  should  last  eighty  years.  But  I  feel  my  body 
too  weak  to  support  me  to  this  height  ;  I  am  obliged  continually  to  check  myself, 
and  be  nothing. 

It  would  be  vain  for  me  to  endeavor  after  a  more  reasonable  manner  of  writing 
to  you.  I  have  nothing  to  speak  of  but  myself,  and  what  can  I  say  but  what  I  feel  ? 
If  you  should  have  any  reason  to  regret  this  state  of  excitement  in  me,  I  will  turn 
the  tide  of  your  feelings  in  the  right  channel,  by  mentioning  that  it  is  the  only 
state  for  the  best  sort  of  poetry  —  that  is  all  I  care  for,  all  I  live  for.  Forgive  me 
for  not  filling  up  the  whole  sheet ;  letters  become  so  irksome  to  me,  that  the  next 
time  I  leave  London  I  shall  petition  them  all  to  be  spared  me.  To  give  me  credit 
for  constancy,  and  at  the  same  time  waive  letter-writing,  will  be  the  highest  indul- 
gence I  can  think  of. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


MRS.     CARLYLE     TO     HER     HUSBAND. 

.     .     .     I  could  swear  you  never  heard  of  Madame de .     But  she  has 

heard  of  you  ;  and  if  you  were  in  the  habit  of  thanking  God  "  for  the  blessing  made 
to  fly  over  your  head,"  you  might  offer  a  modest  thanksgiving  for  the  honor  that 
stunning  lady  did  you  in  galloping  madly  all  around  Hyde  Park  in  chase  of  your 
"  brown  wide-awake  "  the  last  day  you  rode  there  ;  no  mortal  could  predict  what 
the  result  would  be  if  she  came  up  with  you.  To  seize  your  bridle  and  look  at  you 
till  she  was  satisfied  was  a  trifle  to  what  she  was  supposed  capable  of.  She  only 
took  to  galloping  after  you  when  more  legitimate  means  had  failed. 

She  circulates  everywhere,  this  madcap  "  Frenchwoman."  She  met  "  the  Rev. 
John  "  (Barlow),  and  said,  when  he  was  offering  delicate  attentions,  "There  is  just 
one  thing  I  wish  you  would  do  for  me  —  to  take  me  to  see  Mr.  Carlyle."  "Tell 
me  to  ask  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  to  dance  a  polka  with  you,"  said  Barlow, 
aghast,  "  and  I  would  dare  it,  though  I  have  not  the  honor  of  his  acquaintance  ; 
but  take  anybody  to  Mr.  Carlyle  — impossible  !" 

"  That  silly  old  Barlow  won't  take  me  to  Carlyle,"  said  the  lady  to  George 
Cook;  "you  must  do  it  then."  "Gracious  Heavens!"  said  George  Cook;  "ask 
me  to  take  you  up  to  the  Queen,  and  introduce  you  to  her,  and  I  would  do  it,  and 
'  take  the  six  months'  imprisonment,'  or  whatever  punishment  was  awarded  me  ; 
but  take  anybody  to  Mr.  Carlyle —  impossible  !  " 

Soon  after  this,  George  Cook  met  her  riding  in  the  Park,  and  said  :  "I  passed 
Mr.  Carlyle  a  little  way  on,  in  his  brown  wide-awake."  The  lady  lashed  her  horse 
and  set  off  in  pursuit,  leaving  her  party  out  of  sight,  and  went  all  round  the  Park 
at  full  gallop,  looking  out  for  the  wide-awake.  .  .  . 

MRS.  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


SWEETNESS    AND    LIGHT.  231 


SWEETNESS     AND     LIGHT. 

THE  pursuit  of  perfection,  then,  is  the  pursuit  of  sweetness  and  light.  He  who 
works  for  sweetness  and  light,  works  to  make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail. 
He  who  works  for  machinery,  he  who  works  for  hatred,  works  only  for  confusion. 
Culture  looks  beyond  machinery,  culture  hates  hatred  ;  culture  has  one  great  pas- 
sion, the  passion  for  sweetness  and  light.  It  has  one  even  yet  greater!  —  the 
passion  for  making  them  prevail.  It  is  not  satisfied  till  we  all  come  to  a  perfect 
man  ;  it  knows  that  the  sweetness  and  light  of  the  few  must  be  imperfect  until  the 
raw  and  unkindled  masses  of  humanity  are  touched  with  sweetness  and  light.  If  I 
have  not  shrunk  from  saying  that  we  must  work  for  sweetness  and  light,  so  neither 
have  I  shrunk  from  saying  that  we  must  have  a  broad  basis,  must  have  sweetness 
and  light  for  as  many  as  possible.  Again  and  again  I  have  insisted  how  those  are 
the  happy  moments  of  humanity,  how  those  are  the  marking  epochs  of  a  people's 
life,  how  those  are  the  flowering  times  for  literature  and  art  and  all  the  creative 
power  of  genius,  when  there  is  a  national  glow  of  life  and  thought,  when  the  whole 
of  society  is  in  the  fullest  measure  permeated  by  thought,  sensible  to  beauty,  in- 
telligent and  alive.  Only  it  must  be  real  thought  and  real  beauty  ;  real  sweetness 
and  real  light.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  give  the  masses,  as  they  call  them,  an 
intellectual  food  prepared  and  adapted  in  the  way  they  think  proper  for  the  actual 
condition  of  the  masses.  The  ordinary  popular  literature  is  an  example  of  this  way 
of  working  on  the  masses.  Plenty  of  people  will  try  to  indoctrinate  the  masses 
with  the  set  of  ideas  and  judgments  constituting  the  creed  of  their  own  profession 
or  party.  Our  religious  and  political  organizations  give  an  example  of  this  way  of 
working  on  the  masses.  I  condemn  neither  way ;  but  -culture  works  differently. 
It  does  not  try  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of  inferior  classes  ;  it  does  not  try  to  win 
them  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its  own,  with  ready-made  judgments  and  watch-words. 
It  seeks  to  do  away  with  classes  ;  to  make  the  best  that  has  been  taught  and 
known  in  the  world  current  everywhere  ;  to  make  all  men  live  in  an  atmosphere  of 
sweetness  and  light,  where  they  may  use  ideas,  as  it  uses  them  itself,  freely,  — 
nourished,  and  not  bound  by  them. 

This  is  the  social  idea  ;  and  the  men  of  culture  are  the  true  apostles  of  equality. 
The  great  men  of  culture  are  those  who  have  had  a  passion  for  diffusing,  for  mak- 
ing prevail,  for  carrying  from  one  end  of  society  to  the  other,  the  best  knowledge, 
the  best  ideas  of  their  time  ;  who  have  labored  to  divest  knowledge  of  all  that  was 
harsh,  uncouth,  difficult,  abstract,  professional,  exclusive  ;  to  humanize  it,  to  make 
it  efficient  outside  the  clique  of  the  cultivated  and  learned,  yet  still  remaining  the 
best  knowledge  and  thought  of  the  time,  and  a  true  source,  therefore,  of  sweetness 
and  light.  Such  a  man  was  Abelard  in  the  Middle  Ages,  in  spite  of  all  his  imper- 
fections ;  and  thence  the  boundless  emotion  and  enthusiasm  which  Abelard  ex- 
cited. Such  were  Lessing  and  Herder  in  Germany,  at  the  end  of  the  last  century; 
and  their  services  to  Germany  were  in  this  way  inestimably  precious.  Generations 


232  FASHIONABLE     LIFE    AT    KINKAIRD    HOUSE. 

will  pass,  and  literary  monuments  will  accumulate,  and  works  far  more  perfect  than 
the  works  of  Lessing  and  Herder  will  be  produced  in  Germany ;  and  yet  the  names 
of  these  two  men  will  fill  a  German  with  a  reverence  and  enthusiasm  such  as  the 
names  of  the  most  gifted  masters  will  hardly  awaken.  And  why  ?  Because  they 
humanized  knowledge;  because  they  broadened  the  basis  of  life  and  intelligence; 
because  they  worked  powerfully  to  diffuse  sweetness  and  light,  to  make  reason  and 
the  will  of  God  prevail.  With  St.  Augustine  they  said  :  "  Let  us  not  leave  Thee 
alone  to  make  in  the  secret  of  thy  knowledge,  as  thou  didst  before  the  creation  of 
the  firmament,  the  division  of  light  from  darkness  ;  let  the  children  of  thy  spirit, 
placed  in  their  firmament,  make  their  light  shine  upon  the  earth,  mark  the  division 
of  night  and  day,  and  announce  the  revolution  of  the  times  ;  for  the  old  order  is 
passed,  and  the  new  arises  ;  the  night  is  spent,  the  day  is  come  forth  ;  and  thou 
shalt  crown  the  year  with  thy  blessing,  when  thou  shalt  send  forth  laborers  into 
thy  harvest  sown  by  other  hands  than  theirs  ;  when  thou  shalt  send  forth  new 
laborers  to  new  seed-times,  whereof  the  harvest  shall  be  not  yet." 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


FASHIONABLE     LIFE     AT     KINKAIRD     HOUSE. 

.  .  .  I  see  something  of  fashionable  people  here,  and  truly  to  my  plebeian 
conception  there  is  not  a  more  futile  class  of  persons  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  If  I 
were  doomed  to  exist  as  a  man  of  fashion,  I  do  honestly  believe  I  should  swallow  rats- 
bane,  or  apply  to  hemp  or  steel  before  three  months  were  over.  From  day  to  day 
and  year  to  year  the  problem  is,  not  how  to  use  time,  but  how  to  waste  it  least 
painfully.  They  have  their  dinners  and  their  routs.  They  move  heaven  and  earth 
to  get  every  thing  arranged  and  enacted  properly  ;  and  when  the  whole  is  done, 
what  is  it  ?  Had  the  parties  all  wrapped  themselves  in  warm  blankets  and  kept 
their  beds,  much  peace  had  been  among  several  hundreds  of  His  Majesty's  subjects, 
and  the  same  result,  the  uneasy  destruction  of  half  a  dozen  hours,  had  been  quite 
as  well  attained.  No  wonder  poor  women  take  to  opium  and  scandal.  The  wonder 
is  rather  that  these  queens  of  the  land  do  not  some  morning,  struck  by  the  hopeless- 
ness of  their  condition,  make  a  general  finish  by  simultaneous  consent,  and  exhibit 
to  coroners  and  juries  the  spectacle  of  the  whole  world  of  ton  suspended  by  their 
garters,  and  freed  at  last  from  ennui  mtlne  most  cheap  and  complete  of  all  possible 
modes.  There  is  something  in  the  life  of  a  sturdy  peasant  toiling  from  sun  to  sun 
for  a  plump  wife  and  six  eating  children  ;  but  as  for  the  Lady  Jerseys  and  the  Lord 
Petershams,  peace  be  with  them. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


PETITION    OF    THUGS.  233 


PETITION     OF     THUGS. 

WE,  the  most  religious  fraternity  of  Thugs,  having  heard  it  reported  through- 
out the  whole  extent  of  India,  that  toleration  is  granted  by  the  wisdom  of  the  Brit- 
ish Parliament  to  every  diversity  of  creed,  do  most  humbly  submit  our  grievances 
to  the  patient  consideration  of  your  Honorable  House.  We  claim  a  much  higher 
antiquity  than  the  earliest  of  devotional  institutions  known  in  Britain.  We  are  the 
first-born  of  Cain.  We  profit  by  the  holy  book  he  left  behind  him,  covering  with 
fig-leaf  what  we  consider  to  be  unessential  or  liable  to  misinterpretation.  Our  hu- 
manity teaches  us  to  confine  no  dissidents  in  unhealthy  prisons,  or  to  separate  no 
husband  from  his  wife,  no  father  from  his  children,  but  merely  to  offer  up  man's 
life-blood  to  Him  who  gave  man  life.  Our  forefather,  Cain,  did  not  cast  his  brother 
Abel  into  a  dark  cavern  infested  by  bats  and  serpents,  but  slew  him  as  manfully 
and  dexterously,  and  instantaneously,  as  could  have  been  done  by  the  best  swords- 
man in  the  service  of  Hyder  AH. 

It  is  reported  to  us,  that  there  are  religions  by  which  it  is  declared  lawful  and 
right  to  disobey  the  prince  they  have  sworn  to  obey,  and  even  to  select  out  of  the 
rabble  a  leader  of  singing  boys  in  flowing  stoles,  sable  and  white,  purple  and 
scarlet ;  and  to  place  him  in  opposition  to  the  rightful  ruler  of  the  land.  .  .  . 

We  lay  our  cause  with  confidence  at  the  bar  of  your  Honorable  House,  claim- 
ing and  deserving  no  more  than  has  already  been  granted  by  it,  to  the  three  or  four 
last  religions  which  have  consecutively  been  dominant  in  Great  Britain.  We  hear 
that  these  religions  are  rolling  over  one  another  at  this  instant,  and  exercising  a 
prodigious  volubility  of  limb  and  tongue  ;  the  elderly  and  decrepit  thrown  on  its 
back,  cursing  and  swearing,  but  holding  down  the  younger  by  the  throat.  We  take 
no  delight,  no  interest,  in  these  prolusions  ;  and  we  demand  only  simple  protection, 
in  meet  reward  for  undivided  allegiance. 

No  prayers  do  we  offer  up  to  God  that  it  may  please  his  Divine  Majesty  to  as- 
sist us  in  sweeping  our  enemies  from  his  earth  ;  no  thanksgiving  for  having  be- 
strewn it  with  limbs  and  carcasses  to  satiate  the  hyena  and  the  vulture.  We  in- 
vite our  fellow-men  to  die  as  becomes  them  in  His  service.  We  lead  Death  by  the 
hand  in  quiet  and  silence  to  his  own  door,  and  we  depart  in  peace.  Therefore  we, 
conscious  of  our  innocence  and  purity,  venture  to  remind  our  generous  protectors 
that  the  few  we  sacrifice  are  sacrificed  to  our  God  alone,  and  neither  to  gratify  pride 
nor  vengeance  ;  that  if  we  slay  a  few  hundreds  in  the  space  of  a  year,  our  gracious 
protectors  slay  occasionally  as  many  thousands  between  the  rising  and  setting  sun. 
We  do  not,  indeed,  with  the  same  fervor  and  magnificence  as  our  gracious  protectors, 
sing  hymns,  beat  drums,  blow  trumpets,  and  swing  bells  from  lofty  towers  in 
jubilee ;  but  we  wash  our  hands,  lay  aside  our  daggers,  bend  our  knees,  and  pray. 

Confidently,  then,  do  we  approach  our  gracious  protectors,  and  entreat  the 
same  favor,  the  same  liberty  of  worship,  as  our  fellow-subjects. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


234  THE    BATTLE     OF    TLASCALA. 


THE     BATTLE     OF     TLASCALA. 

As  a  battle  was  now  inevitable,  Cortez  resolved  to  march  out  and  meet  the 
enemy  in  the  field.  This  would  have  a  show  of  confidence,  that  might  serve  the 
double  purpose  of  intimidating  the  Tlascalans,  and  inspiriting  his  own  men,  whose 
enthusiasm  might  lose  somewhat  of  its  heat,  if  compelled  to  await  the  assault  of 
their  antagonists,  inactive  in  their  own  intrenchments.  The  sun  rose  bright  on 
the  following  morning,  the  5th  of  September,  1519,  an  eventful  day  in  the  history 
of  the  Spanish  Conquest.  The  general  reviewed  his  army,  and  gave  them,  prepara- 
tory to  marching,  a  few  words  of  encouragement  and  advice. 

The  infantry  he  instructed  to  rely  on  the  point  rather  than  the  edge  of  their 
swords,  and  to  endeavor  to  thrust  their  opponents  through  the  body.  The  horse- 
men were  to  charge  at  half  speed,  with  their  lances  aimed  at  the  eyes  of  the 
Indians.  The  artillery,  the  arquebusiers,  and  crossbow-men,  were  to  support  one 
another,  some  loading  while  others  discharged  their  pieces,  that  there  should  be  an 
unintermitted  firing  kept  up  through  the  action.  Above  all,  they  were  to  maintain 
their  ranks  close  and  unbroken,  as  on  this  depended  their  preservation. 

They  had  not  advanced  a  quarter  of  a  league,  when  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
Tlascalan  army.  Its  dense  array  stretched  far  and  wide  over  a  vast  plain  or  mead- 
ow ground,  about  six  miles  square.  Its  appearance  justified  the  report  which  had 
been  given  of  its  numbers. 

Nothing  could  be  more  picturesque  than  the  aspect  of  these  Indian  battalions 
with  the  naked  bodies  of  the  common  soldiers  gaudily  painted,  the  fantastic  helmets 
of  the  chiefs  glittering  with  gold  and  precious  stones,  and  the  glowing  panoplies  of 
feather-work  which  decorated  their  persons.  Innumerable  spears  and  darts  tipped 
with  points  of  transparent  itztli,  or  fiery  copper,  sparkled  bright  in  the  morning 
sun,  like  the  phosphoric  gleams  playing  on  the  surface  of  a  troubled  sea,  while  the 
rear  of  the  mighty  host  was  dark  with  the  shadows  of  banners,  on  which  were  em- 
blazoned the  armorial  bearings  of  the  great  Tlascalan  and  Otomir  chieftains. 
Among  these,  the  white  heron  on  the  rock,  the  cognizance  of  the  house  of  Xicoten- 
catl,  was  conspicuous,  and,  still  more,  the  golden  eagle  with  outspread  wings,  in 
the  fashion  of  a  Roman  signum,  richly  ornamented  with  emeralds  and  silver-work, 
the  gr.eat  standard  of  the  republic  of  Tlascala. 

The  common  file  wore  no  covering  except  a  girdle  around  the  loins.  Their 
bodies  were  painted  with  the  appropriate  colors  of  the  chieftain  whose  banner  they 
followed.  The  feather-mail  of  the  higher  class  of  warriors  exhibited,  also,  a  similar 
selection  of  colors  for  the  like  object,  in  the  same  manner  as  the  color  of  the  tartan 
indicates  the  peculiar  clan  of  the  Highlander.  The  caciques  and  principal  war- 
riors were  clothed  in  a  quilted  cotton  tunic,  two  inches  thick,  which,  fitting  close 
to  the  body,  protected  also  the  thighs  and  the  shoulders.  Over  this  the  wealthier 
Indians  wore  cuirasses  of  thin  gold  plate,  or  silver.  Their  legs  were  defended  by 
leathern  boots  or  sandals,  trimmed  with  gold.  But  the  most  brilliant  part  of  their 


THE    BATTLE     OF    TLASCALA.  235 

costume  was  a  rich  mantle  of  the  plumage  of  feather-work,  embroidered  with  curi- 
ous art,  and  furnishing  some  resemblance  to  the  gorgeous  surcoat  worn  by  the 
European  knight,  over  his  armor  in  the  Middle  Ages.  This  graceful  and  pictur- 
esque dress  was  surmounted  by  a  fantastic  head-piece  made  of  wood  or  leather, 
representing  the  head  of  some  wild  animal,  and  frequently  displaying  a  formidable 
array  of  teeth.  With  this  covering  the  warrior's  head  was  enveloped,  producing  a 
most  grotesque  and  hideous  effect.  From  the  crown  floated  a  splendid  panache  of 
the  richly  variegated  plumage  of  the  tropics,  indicating,  by  its  form  and  colors,  the 
lank  and  family  of  the  wearer.  To  complete  their  defensive  armor,  they  carried 
shields  or  targets,  made  sometimes  of  wood  covered  with  leather,  but  more  usually 
of  a  light  frame  of  reeds  quilted  with  cotton,  which  were  preferred,  as  rougher  and 
less  liable  to  fracture  than  the  former.  They  had  other  bucklers,  in  which  the 
cotton  was  covered  with  an  elastic  substance,  enabling  them  to  be  shut  up  in  a 
more  compact  form,  like  a  fan  or  umbrella.  These  shields  were  decorated  with 
showy  ornaments,  according  to  the  taste  or  wealth  of  the  wearer,  and  fringed  with 
a  beautiful  pendant  of  feather-work. 

Their  weapons  were  slings,  bows  and  arrows,  javelins,  and  darts.  They  were 
accomplished  archers,  and  would  discharge  two  or  even  three  arrows  at  a  time. 
But  they  most  excelled  in  throwing  the  javelin.  One  species  of  this,  with 
a  thong  attached  to  it,  which  remained  in  the  slinger's  hand,  that  he  might 
recall  the  weapon,  was  especially  dreaded  by  the  Spaniards.  These  various 
weapons  were  pointed  with  bone,  or  the  mineral  itztli  (obsidian),  the  hard, 
vitreous  substance,  already  noticed,  as  capable  of  taking  an  edge  like  a  razor, 
though  easily  blunted.  Their  spears  and  arrows  were  also  frequently  headed  with 
copper.  Instead  of  a  sword,  they  bore  a  two-handed  staff,  about  three  feet  and  a 
half  long,  in  which,  at  regular  distances,  were  inserted  transversely,  sharp  blades 
of  itztli,  — a  formidable  weapon,  which,  an  eye-witness  assures  us,  he  had  seen  fell 
a  horse  at  a  blow. 

Such  was  the  costume  of  the  Tlascalan  warrior,  and  indeed  of  that  great  family 
of  nations  generally,  who  occupied  the  plateau  of  Anahuac.  Some  parts  of  it,  as 
the  targets  and  the  cotton-mail,  or  escaupil,  as  it  was  called  in  Castilian,  were  so 
excellent,  that  they  were  subsequently  adopted  by  the  Spaniards,  as  equally  effect- 
ual in  the  way  of  protection,  and  superior,  on  the  score  of  lightness  and  conven- 
ience, to  their  own.  They  were  of  sufficient  strength  to  turn  an  arrow,  or  the 
stroke  of  a  javelin,  although  impotent  as  a  defence  against  fire-arms.  But  what 
armor  is  not  ?  Yet  it  is  probably  no  exaggeration  to  say,  that,  in  convenience, 
gracefulness,  and  strength,  the  arms  of  the  Indian  warrior  were  not  very  inferior 
to  those  of  the  polished  nations  of  antiquity.  As  soon  as  the  Castilians  came  in 
sight,  the  Tlascalans  set  up  their  yell  of  defiance,  rising  high  above  the  wild  bar- 
baric minstrelsy  of  shell,  atabal,  and  trumpet,  with  which  they  proclaimed  their 
triumphant  anticipation  of  victory  over  the  paltry  forces  of  the  invaders. 

When  the  latter  had  come  within  bowshot,  the  Indians  hurled  a  tempest  of 
missiles,  that  darkened  the  sun  for  a  moment  as  with  a  passing  cloud,  strewing  the 
earth  around  with  heaps  of  stones  and  arrows.  Slowly  and  steadily  the  little  band 


236  THE    BATTLE     OF    TLASCALA, 

of  Spaniards  held  on  its  way  amidst  this  arrowy  shower,  until  it  had  reached  what 
appeared  the  proper  distance  for  delivering  its  fire  with  full  effect. 

Cortez  then  halted,  and,  hastily  forming  his  troops,  opened  a  general  well- 
directed  fire  along  the  whole  line.  Every  shot  bore  its  errand  of  death  ;  and  the 
ranks  of  the  Indians  were  mowed  down  faster  than  their  comrades  in  the  rear 
could  carry  off  their  bodies,  according  to  custom,  from  the  field.  The  balls  in  their 
passage  through  the  crowded  files,  bearing  splinters  of  the  broken  harness,  and 
mangled  limbs  of  the  warriors,  scattered  havoc  and  desolation  in  their  path.  The 
mob  of  barbarians  stood  petrified  with  dismay,  till,  at  length,  galled  to  desperation 
by  their  intolerable  sufferings,  they  poured  forth  simultaneously  their  hideous  war- 
shriek,  and  rushed  impetuously  on  the  Christians. 

On  they  came  like  an  avalanche,  a  mountain  torrent,  shaking  the  solid  earth, 
and  sweeping  away  every  obstacle  in  its  path.  The  little  army  of  Spaniards  op- 
posed a  bold  front  to  the  overwhelming  mass.  But  no  strength  could  withstand  it. 
They  faltered,  gave  way,  were  borne  along  before  it,  and  their  ranks  were  broken 
and  thrown  into  disorder.  It  was  in  vain  the  general  called  on  them  to  close  again 
and  rally.  His  voice  was  drowned  by  the  din  of  fight,  and  the  fierce  cries  of  the 
assailants.  For  a  moment,  it  seemed  that  all  was  lost.  The  tide  of  battle  had 
turned  against  them,  and  the  fate  of  the  Christians  was  sealed. 

But  every  man  had  that  within  his  bosom  which  spoke  louder  than  the  voice  of 
the  general.  Despair  gave  unnatural  energy  to  his  arm.  The  naked  body  of  the 
Indian  afforded  no  resistance  to  the  sharp  Toledo  steel  ;  and  with  their  good 
swords,  the  Spanish  infantry  at  length  succeeded  in  staying  the  human  torrent. 
The  heavy  guns  from  a  distance  thundered  on  the  flank  of  the  assailants,  which, 
shaken  by  the  iron  tempest,  was  thrown  into  disorder.  Their  very  numbers  in- 
creased the  confusion,  as  they  were  precipitated  on  the  masses  in  front.  The 
horse  at  the  same  moment,  charging  gallantly  under  Cortez,  followed  up  the  ad- 
vantage, and  at  length  compelled  the  tumultuous  throng  to  fall  back  with  greater 
precipitation  and  disorder  than  that  with  which  they  had  advanced. 

More  than  once  in  the  course  of  the  action  a  similar  assault  was  attempted  by 
the  Tlascalans,  but  each  time  with  less  spirit,  and  greater  loss.  They  were  too 
deficient  in  military  science  to  -profit  by  their  vast  superiority  in  numbers.  They 
were  distributed  into  companies,  it  is  true,  each  serving  under  its  own  chieftain 
and  banner.  But  they  were  not  arranged  by  rank  and  file,  and  moved  in  a  con- 
fused mass,  promiscuously  heaped  together.  They  knew  not  how  to  concentrate 
numbers  on  a  given  point,  or  even  how  to  sustain  an  assault,  by  employing  succes- 
sive detachments  to  support  and  relieve  one  another.  A  very  small  part  only  of 
their  array  could  be  brought  into  contact  with  an  enemy  inferior  to  them  in  amount 
of  forces.  The  remainder  of  the  army,  inactive  and  worse  than  useless,  in  the 
rear,  served  only  to  press  tumultuously  on  the  advance,  and  embarrass  its  move- 
ments by  mere  weight  of  numbers,  while,  on  the  least  alarm,  they  were  seized 
with  a  panic  and  threw  the  whole  body  into  inextricable  confusion.  It  was,  in 
short,  the  combat  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Persians  over  again. 

Still  the  great  numerical  superiority  of  the  Indians  might  have  enabled  them, 


THE    BATTLE     OF    TLASCALA. 


237 


at  a  severe  cost  of  their  own  lives,  indeed,  to  wear  out,  in  time,  the  constancy  of 
the  Spaniards,  disabled  by  wounds  and  incessant  fatigue.  But,  fortunately  for  the 
latter,  dissensions  arose  among  their  enemies.  A  Tlascalan  chieftain,  command- 
ing one  of  the  great  divisions,  had  taken  umbrage  at  the  haughty  demeanor  of 
Xicotencatl,  who  had  charged  him  with  misconduct  or  cowardice  in  the  late  action. 
The  injured  cacique  challenged  his  rival  to  single  combat.  This  did  not  take 
place.  But,  burning  with  resentment,  he  chose  the  present  occasion  to  indulge  it, 
by  drawing  off  his  forces,  amounting  to  ten  thousand  men,  from  the  field.  He  also 
persuaded  another  of  the  commanders  to  follow  his  example. 

Thus  reduced  to  about  half  his  original  strength,  and  that  greatly  crippled  by 
the  losses  of  the  day,  Xicotencatl  could  no  longer  maintain  his  ground  against  the 
Spaniards.  After  disputing  the  field  with  admirable  courage  for  four  hours,  he  re- 
treated and  resigned  it  to  the  enemy.  The  Spaniards  were  too  much  jaded,  and 
too  many  were  disabled  by  wounds,  to  allow  them  to  pursue  ;  and  Cortez,  satisfied 
with  the  decisive  victory  he  had  gained,  returned  in  triumph  to  his  position  on  the 
hill  of  Tzompach. 

The  number  of  killed  in  his  own  ranks  had  been  very  small,  notwithstanding 
the  severe  loss  inflicted  on  the  enemy.  These  few  he  was  careful  to  bury  where 
they  could  not  be  discovered,  anxious  to  conceal  not  only  the  amount  of  the  slain, 
but  the  fact  that  the  white  were  mortal.  But  very  many  of  the  men  were  wounded, 
and  all  the  horses.  The  trouble  of  the  Spaniards  was  much  enhanced  by  the  want 
of  many  articles  important  to  them  in  their  present  exigency.  They  had  neither 
oil  nor  salt,  which,  as  before  noticed,  was  not  to  be  obtained  in  Tlascala.  Their 
clothing,  accommodated  to  a  softer  climate,  was  ill  adapted  to  the  rude  air  of  the 
mountains  ;  and  bows  and  arrows,  as  Bernal  Diaz  sarcastically  remarks,  formed  an 
indifferent  protection  against  the  inclemency  of  the  weather. 

Still,  they  had  much  to  cheer  them  in  the  events  of  the  day ;  and  they  might 
draw  from  them  a  reasonable  ground  for  confidence  in  their  own  resources,  such  as 
no  other  experience  could  have  supplied.  Not  that  the  results  could  authorize  any- 
thing like  contempt  for  their  Indian  foe.  Singly  and  with  the  same  weapons,  he 
might  have  stood  his  ground  against  the  Spaniard.  But  the  success  of  the  day 
established  the  superiority  of  science  and  discipline  over  mere  physical  courage  and 
numbers.  It  was  fighting  over  again,  as  we  have  said,  the  old  battle  of  the  Euro- 
pean and  the  Asiatic.  But  the  handful  of  Greeks  who  routed  the  hosts  of  Xerxes 
and  Darius,  it  must  be  remembered,  had  not  so  obvious  an  advantage  on  the  score 
of  weapons  as  was  enjoyed  by  the  Spaniards  in  these  wars.  The  use  of  fire-arms 
gave  an  ascendency  which  cannot  easily  be  estimated  ;  one  so  great,  that  a  contest 
between  nations  equally  civilized,  which  should  be  similar  in  all  other  respects  to 
that  between  the  Spaniards  and  the  Tlascalans,  would  probably  be  attended  with  a 
similar  issue.  To  all  this  must  be  added  the  effect  produced  by  the  cavalry.  The 
nations  of  Anahuac  had  no  large  domesticated  animals,  and  were  unacquainted 
with  any  beast  of  burden.  Their  imaginations  were  bewildered  when  they  beheld 
the  strange  apparition  of  the  horse  and  his  rider  moving  in  unison  and  obedient  to 
one  impulse,  as  if  possessed  of  a  common  nature ;  and  when  they  saw  the  terrible 


238  THE    BATTLE     OF    TLASCALA. 

animal,  with  his  "  neck  clothed  in  thunder,"  bearing  down  their  squadrons  and 
trampling  them  in  the  dust,  no  wonder  they  should  have  regarded  him  with  the 
mysterious  terror  felt  for  a  supernatural  being.  A  very  little  reflection  on  the 
manifold  grounds  of  superiority,  both  moral  and  physical,  possessed  by  the  Span- 
iards in  this  contest,  will  surely  explain  the  issue,  without  any  disparagement  to 
the  courage  or  capacity  of  their  opponents. 

Cortez,  thinking  the  occasion  favorable,  followed  up  the  important  blow  he  had 
struck  by  a  new  mission  to  the  capital,  bearing  a  message  of  similar  import  with 
that  recently  sent  to  the  camp.  But  the  senate  was  not  yet  sufficiently  humbled. 
The  late  defeat  caused,  indeed,  general  consternation.  Maxixcatzin,  one  of  the 
four  great  lords  who  presided  over  the  republic,  reiterated  with  greater  force  the 
arguments  before  urged  by  him  for  embracing  the  proffered  alliance  of  the  stran- 
gers. The  armies  of  the  state  had  been  beaten  too  often  to  allow  any  reasonable 
hope  of  successful  resistance  ;  and  he  enlarged  on  the  generosity  shown  by  the 
politic  Conqueror  to  his  prisoners,  —  so  unusual  in  Anahuac, — as  an  additional 
motive  for  an  alliance  with  men  who  knew  how  to  be  friends  as  well  as  foes. 

But  in  these  views  he  was  overruled  by  the  war  party,  whose  animosity  was 
sharpened,  rather  than  subdued,  by  the  late  discomfiture.  Their  hostile  feelings 
were  further  exasperated  by  the  younger  Xicotencatl,  who  burned  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  retrieve  his  disgrace,  and  to  wipe  away  the  stain  which  had  fallen  for  the 
first  time  on  the  arms  of  the  republic. 

In  their  perplexity,  they  called  in  the  assistance  of  the  priests,  whose  authority 
was  frequently  invoked  in  the  deliberations  of  the  American  chiefs.  The  latter 
inquired,  with  some  simplicity,  of  these  interpreters  of  fate,  whether  the  strangers 
were  supernatural  beings,  or  men  of  flesh  and  blood  like  themselves.  The  priests, 
after  some  consultation,  are  said  to  have  made  the  strange  answer,  that  the  Span- 
iards, though  not  gods,  were  children  of  the  Sun  ;  that  they  derived  their  strength 
from  that  luminary,  and,  when  his  beams  were  withdrawn,  their  powers  would  also 
fail.  They  recommended  a  night  attack,  therefore,  as  one  which  afforded  the  best 
chance  of  success.  This  apparently  childish  response  may  have  had  in  it  more  of 
cunning  than  credulity.  It  was  not  improbably  suggested  by  Xicotencatl  himself, 
or  by  the  caciques  in  his  interest,  to  reconcile  the  people  to  a  measure  which  was 
contrary  to  military  usages,  — indeed,  it  maybe  said,  to  the  public  law  of  Anahuac. 
Whether  the  fruit  of  artifice  or  superstition,  it  prevailed  ;  and  the  Tlascalan  gen- 
eral was  empowered,  at  the  head  of  a  detachment  of  ten  thousand  warriors,  to  try 
the  effect  of  an  assault  by  night  on  the  Christian  camp. 

The  affair  was  conducted  with  such  secrecy,  that  it  did  not  reach  the  ears  of  the 
Spaniards.  But  their  general  was  not  one  who  allowed  himself,  sleeping  or  waking, 
to  be  surprised  on  his  post.  Fortunately,  the  night  appointed  was  illumed  by  the 
full  beams  of  an  autumnal  moon  ;  and  one  of  the  videttes  perceived  by  its  light,  at 
a  considerable  distance,  a  large  body  of  Indians  moving  towards  the  Christian  lines. 
He  was  not  slow  in  giving  the  alarm  to  the  garrison. 

The  Spaniards  slept,  as  has  been  said,  with  their  arms  by  their  side  ;  while  their 
horses,  picketed  near  them,  stood  ready  saddled,  with  the  bridle  hanging  at  the 


AUNT    MARIA     AND     THE    AUTOPHONE.  239 

bow.  In  five  minutes,  the  whole  camp  was  under  arms  ;  when  they  beheld  the 
dusky  columns  of  the  Indians  cautiously  advancing  over  the  plain,  their  heads  just 
peering  above  the  tall  maize  with  which  the  land  was  partially  covered,  Cortez  de- 
termined not  to  abide  the  assault  in  his  intrenchments,  but  to  sally  out  and  pounce 
on  the  enemy  when  he  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill 

Slowly  and  stealthily  the  Indians  advanced,  while  the  Christian  camp,  hushed 
in  profound  silence,  seemed  to  them  buried  in  slumber.  But  no  sooner  had  they 
reached  the  slope  of  the  rising  ground,  than  they  were  astounded  by  the  deep  battle 
cry  of  the  Spaniards,  followed  by  the  instantaneous  apparition  of  the  whole  army, 
as  they  sallied  forth  from  the  works,  and  poured  down  the  sides  of  the  hill.  Bran- 
dishing aloft  their  weapons,  they  seemed  to  the  troubled  fancies  of  the  Tlascalans, 
like  so  many  specters  or  demons  hurrying  to  and  fro  in  mid-air,  while  the  uncertain 
light  magnified  their  numbers,  and  expanded  the  horse  and  his  rider  into  gigantic 
and  unearthly  dimensions. 

Scarcely  waiting  the  shock  of  their  enemy,  the  panic-struck  barbarians  let  off  a 
feeble  volley  of  arrows,  and,  offering  no  other  resistance,  fled  rapidly  and  tumul- 
tuously  across  the  plain.  The  horse  easily  overtook  the  fugitives,  riding  them 
down  and  cutting  them  to  pieces,  without  mercy,  until  Cortez,  weary  with  slaughter, 
called  off  his  men,  leaving  the  field  loaded  with  the  bloody  trophies  of  victory. 

WILLIAM  HICKLING  PRESCOTT. 


AUNT  MARIA  AND  THE  AUTOPHONE. 

"  You  see,  stranger,  we're  the  musicalest  family  in  the  whole  county.  When 
I  married  ma,  she  says,  '  Abner  '  (that's  me)  —  '  Abner,  '  says  she,  '  I  kin  do  with- 
out a  rag  carpet  in  the  kitchin,  but  I  cann't  live  without  a  melodjun  in  the  parlor.' 

"So  we  had  a  melodjun  in  the  parlor,  and  the  children  came  naturally  by  their 
love  for  music.  Why,  bless  your  soul !  I  may  say  they  took  to  it  with  their  first 
breaths,  and  kept  it  up  always  after.  The  girls  had  the  melodjun,  and  the  boys 
had  every  thing  from  a  willow  whistle  to  a  fiddle,  and  when  Martha  and  Stella  was 
draggin'  a  duet  out  of  the  melodjun  in  the  parlor,  and  Jehiel  and  Jonathan  scrapin' 
out  the  '  Arkansaw  Traveller'  in  the  kitchin  on  a  fiddle  and  banjo,  it  was  a  musical 
abode. 

"  Everything  went  along  all  right  until  Aunt  Maria  came.  Lordy  !  how  that 
woman  did  hate  music !  Nobody  had  any  peace  in  the  house,  and  what's  the  worst,  a 
sort  of  bad  luck  came  over  the  harmless  instruments  themselves.  Jonathan's  fiddle 
strings  was  always  getting  broke  before  he'd  half  tuned  up,  and  the  pesky  melod- 
jun took  to  leaking  so  that  both  gals  together,  one  on  the  pedals  and  the  other  on 
the  keys,  could  hardly  pump  '  Old  Hundred  '  out  of  her  Sundays.  Some  did  sus- 
pect Maria,  but,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  cautiously  around,  "  I  don't  think  she 


24o  AUNT    MARIA    AND     THE    AUTOPHONE. 

was  altogether  to  blame ;  howsomever,"  with  a  significant  wink,  "  she  got  the 
credit  of  it. 

"When  John  Henry  —  he's  the  youngest  —  came,  Maria's  heart  seemed  to 
kind  of  soften.  His  first  drum  lasted  a  week,  and  I  noticed  she  never  had  any- 
thing to  say  agin  his  vocal  accomplishments.  Well,  when  John  Henry  was  four 
years  old,  the  old  woman  began  to  look  around  and  see  what  instrument  he'd  be 
likely  to  take  to.  Aunt  Maria  said  it  was  a  burning  shame  to  make  that  innocent 
child  a  stumblin'-block  in  the  way  of  Christians,  but  I  said  I  guessed  John  Henry 
could  stand  it  —  if  we  could. 

"  The  next  day  ma  went  down  to  the  village  to  sell  her  butter  and  eggs,  and 
when  she  came  home  at  night  she  had  a  small  bundle,  which  she  put  away  in  the 
parlor  until  after  supper.  I  know'd  what  it  was — leastways,  not  exactly,  but  I 
guessed  by  the  way  the  old  woman  slung  the  dishes  on  the  table  that  night  that  we 
should  hear  some  news  soon.  When  the  dishes  was  washed  up,  'Ma,'  says  I, 
'  didn't  I  see  you  bring  in  a  bundle  jest  now  ? '  '  You  did,  Abner,'  says  she,  and 
she  smiled  from  one  ear  to  the  other.  '  Abner,'  says  she,  '  I've  found  an  instrument 
at  last  for  John  Henry.'  Aunt  Maria  fetched  a  kind  of  cross  between  a  sigh  and  a 
groan,  but  nobody  paid  any  attention  to  her.  '  Well,  ma/  says  I,  '  let's  have  it.' 
So  out  she  brought  the  bundle,  and  there  was  sort  of  an  accordjun  on  two  legs, 
and  a  lot  of  bits  of  white  paper  as  full  of  holes  as  the  old  woman's  colander.  We 
all  got  around  the  table  while  ma  showed  us  how  it  worked.  '  You  see,'  says  she, 
'  you  jest  poke  in  the  paper —  here,  John  Henry,  this  is  your'n,  and  you  shall  have 
the  first  try ;  there  —  you  shove  the  paper  in  there,  and  work  your  hand  so,  and  it 
plays  all  the  music  on  the  paper.'  '  Ma,'  says  I,  '  do  you  mean  to  say,  as  a  mem- 
ber in  good  and  regular  standin',  that  that  'ere  instrument  plays  them  holes?' 
But  John  Henry  had  grabbed  the  instrument,  and  jest  as  sure  as  I  set  here, 
stranger,  that  four-year-old  child  squeezed  out  '  Old  Hundred  '  jest  as  solemn  and 
a  derned  sight  faster  than  ma's  melodjun.  But  you  oughter  to  see  Aunt  Maria; 
she  straightened  up  and  glared  at  that  innocent  child  as  if  she  wished  he  had  lived 
in  Palestine  about  the  year  one,  and  bolted  out  of  the  room  without  a  word. 

"  Well,  stranger,  it  was  a  sight  to  see  John  Henry  on  the  kitchen  floor  with 
that  'ere  thing  between  his  little  knees,  and  playing  the  '  Sweet  By  and  By  '  in  a 
way  to  make  tears  come  to  everybody's  eyes,  exceptin'  always  Aunt  Maria's.  For 
a  month  our  house  was  the  most  popularest  house  at  the  Corners,  and  John  Henry 
gave  a  free  concert  every  night  for  an  hour  before  he  went  to  bed.  The  strangest 
thing,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  mysterious  tone,  "  was  that  that  'ere  instrument 
kept  in  playin'  order  all  the  time,  whether  it  was  because  John  Henry  took  it  to 
bed  with  him  every  night,  or  whether  it  was  from  the  superior  build  of  the  consarn, 
I  can't  say.  Perhaps  "  —  with  a  wink  —  "  Aunt  Maria  didn't  understand  its  innerd 
construction  as  well  as  she  did  a  fiddle  or  a  melodjun. 

"Well,  as  I  say,  the  instrument  kept  in  playin'  order  all  winter;  the  music, 
'specially  the  pop'lar  tunes,  was  a  little  the  worse  for  wear,  but  that's  all.  '  I  want 
to  be  an  angel '  and  one  or  two  others  got  tored  in  two  about  the  middle  of  March, 
and  John  Henry  asked  Aunt  Maria  to  mend  them  one  day,  and,  bless  you  !  she 


AUNT    MARIA    AND     THE    AUTOPHONE.  241 

loved  that  darlin'  child  too  much  to  refuse  him  anything,  so  she  pasted  the  tunes 
together  as  well  as  she  could,  and  next  day  John  Henry  took  his  instrument  to 
Sunday-school.  You  see,  he'd  taken  it  a  number  of  times,  and  the  teacher  thought 
it  kind  of  'livened  up  the  exercises.  But  this  day,  jest  as  John  Henry  was  slowly 
and  surely  grindin'  out  '  I  want  to  be  an  angel,  '  and  had  got  to  the  middle  of 
the  tune  (where  it  was  tored,  you  see),  all  at  onst  out  he  came  with  'Whoa, 
Emma ! '  and  the  innocent  child  was  too  much  surprised  to  stop  until  the  teacher 
suspended  the  musical  exercises  for  that  day.  John  Henry  didn't  git  no  prize  that 
year,  but  I  hold  that  Aunt  Maria  was  morally  responsible.  You  see,  she  had  so 
little  music  in  her  —  leastwise  we  thought  so  then  —  that  she  couldn't  even  be 
trusted  to  paste  two  tunes  together. 

"  Howsomever,  as  spring  came  on,  we  thought  we  kind  of  noticed  a  change  in 
Maria.  It  wasn't  that  she  was  gittin'  musical  —  that  was,  perhaps,  too  much  to  ex- 
pect on  this  arth,  as  I  said  to  ma — but  she  was  growin'  mellow  somehow.  I  think 
it  was  all  owin'  to  John  Henry's  tender  influence.  You  ask  how  I  knew  she  was 
gittin'  mellow,  stranger  ?  Well,  you  see,  John  Henry's  instrument  still  kept  in 
workin"  order.  She  and  John  Henry  would  disappear  by  the  hour,  and  what  they 
did  no  one  knew.  Ma  said  one  day  she  thought  she  had  heard  John  Henry  playin' 
on  his  instrument  in  Maria's  room,  leastwise  she  had  heard  a  noise  there,  but  it 
didn't  sound  like  any  instrument  in  that  house.  '  Perhaps,'  said  I,  '  it  was  Maria 
singinV  But  the  more  I  thought  it  over,  the  more  mysterious  the  thing  seemed, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  git  to  the  bottom  of  it.  So  one  day,  when  ma  and  the 
girls  had  gone  to  town,  and  the  boys  was  hoein'  potatoes,  I  jest  slipped  into  the 
house  and  listened  awhile.  By  and  by  I  thought  I  heard  a  sound  in  the  direction 
of  Maria's  room,  and  so  I  took  off  my  boots  and  crawled  softly  up  the  stairs  ;  but, 
lordy !  I  might  jest  as  well  have  kept  them  on,  for  when  I  got  up  near  the  door  I 
heard  the  most  dreadful  noises  you  ever  dreamed  of.  If  I  had  had  any  hair,  it 
would  have  stood  up  and  run  off  my  head.  I  first  thought  that  Maria  was  torturin' 
that  innocent  child,  and  was  goin'  to  bust  in  the  door,  but  I  thought  I'd  first  take 
a  peep  through  the  keyhole.  What  do  you  think  I  saw,  stranger  ?  John  Henry 
was  in  his  favorite  attitude  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  workin'  the  instrument  with 
one  hand  and  feedin'  the  music  in  with  the  other,  and  Aunt  Maria  sat  in  her  rock- 
in'-chair,  rockin'  slowly  to  and  fro,  and  keepin'  time  with  her  hands.  Her  glasses 
was  pushed  up  on  her  forrard,  and  tears  of  joy  was  runnin'  down  her  cheeks,  and 
John  Henry  kept  playin'  faster  and  faster;  but  what  music  !  No  tune  that  I  had 
ever  hearn  —  and  we  had  all  sorts  in  that  house  at  one  time  or  anuther  —  came 
from  that  instrument.  I  thought  something  was  wrong,  and  in  I  rushed.  Aunt 
Maria  cried  '  Oh  ! '  and  fell  back  in  her  chair,  lookin'  dreadful  sheepish  ;  but  John 
Henry !  Stranger,  what  do  you  think  that  lamb  did  ?  Why,  he  jest  winked  at  his 
pa,  and  when  I  asked  him  what  that  infernal  row  meant,  he  said,  kind  of  under  his 
breath,  'Why,  you  see,  pa,  one  day  I  got  one  of  them  tunes  in  hindside  foremost, 
and  Aunt  Maria  was  so  pleased  that  I've  gone  on  that  way  ever  since,  hindside 
foremost  or  upside  down.' 

"  I  said  to  ma  that  night  when  she  got  home  :     '  You  see,  ma,  you  was  wrong 


242 


JOEL    AT     WORK. 


about  Maria;  she's  got  as  much  music  in  her  as  the  rest  of  the  family,  but  she's 
obliged  to  take  hers  in  a  peculiar  way.  She  can't  take  it  straight,  but  jest  give  it 
to  her  hindside  foremost  or  upside  down,  and  she  enjoys  it  as  much  as  any-one.'  ' 

Just  then  a  whistle  blew,  arvd  my  friend's  train  came  along.  He  got  into  the 
car  with  a  dazed  expression  on  his  face,  as  if  an  idea  was  trying  to  crystallize  into 
words.  As  the  train  was  moving  away  he  came  rushing  out  on  the  rear  platform, 
and  putting  up  his  hands  in  the  form  of  a  speaking-trumpet,  he  shouted,  "Try 
your  Browning  hindside  foremost,"  and  as  the  train  swept  around  a  curve  I  heard 
faintly  on  the  clear  cold  air,  "  or  upside  down." 

THOMAS  FREDERICK  CRANE. 


JOEL     AT     WORK. 

"  IT'S  no  use  trying  to  sleep,"  declared  Joel,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  and  kicking  the  bedclothes  for  the 
dozenth  time  into  a  roll  at  the  foot,  "as  long  as  I  can 
see  Mamsie's  eyes.  I'll  just  get  up  and  tackle  that  Latin 
grammar  now.  Whew  !  haven't  I  got  to  work,  though. 
Might  as  well  begin  at  it,"  and  he  jumped  out  of  bed. 

Stepping  softly  over  to  the  door  that  led  into  David's 
little  room,  he  closed  it  carefully,  and  with  a  sigh,  lighted 
the  gas.  Then  he  went  over  to  the  table  where  his  school 
books  ought  to  have  been.  But  instead,  the  space  was 

piled  with  a  great  variety  of  things  —  one  or  two  balls,  a  tennis  racket,  and  a  con- 
fusion of  fishing  tackle,  while  in  front,  the  last  thing  that  had  occupied  him  that 
day,  lay  a  book  of  artificial  flies. 

Joel  set  his  teeth  together  hard,  and  looked  at  them.  "  Suppose  I  sha'n't  get 
much  of  this  sort  of  thing  this  summer,"  he  muttered.  "  Here  goes  !  "  and  with- 
out trusting  himself  to  take  another  look,  he  swept  them  all  off  down  to  the  floor 
and  into  a  corner. 

"There,"    he    said,   standing   up  straight,   "lie  there,   will  you?"     But  they 
loomed  up  in  a  suggestive  heap,  and  his  fingers  trembled  to  just  touch  them  once. 
"  I  must  cover  up  the  things,  or  else   I  know   I'll  be  at   them,"    he  said,  and 
hurrying  over  to  the  bed,  he  dragged  off  the  coverlid.      "  Now,"   and   he  threw  it 
over  the  fascinating  mass,  "  I've  got  to  study.     Dear  me,  where  are  my  books  ? " 

For  the  next  five  minutes  Joel  had  enough  to  do  to  collect  his  working  instru- 
ments, and  when  at  last  he  unearthed  them  from  the  corner  of  his  closet  where  he 
had  thrown  them  under  a  pile  of  boots,  he  was  tired  enough  to  sit  down. 

"  I  don't  know  which  to  go  at  first,"  he  groaned,  whirling  the  leaves  of  the 
upper  book.  "  It  ought  to  be  Latin  —  but  then  it  ought  to  be  algebra  just  as  much, 
and  as  for  history  —  well  there  —  here  goes,  I'll  take  them  as  they  come." 


CRADLE.  243 

With  a  very  red  face  Joel  plunged  into  the  first  one  under  his  hand.  It  proved 
to  be  the  Latin  grammar,  and  with  a  grimace,  he  found  the  page,  and  resting  his 
elbows  on  the  table,  he  seized  each  side  of  his  stubby  head  with  his  hand.  "  I'll 
hang  on  to  my  hair,"  he  said,  and  plunged  into  his  task. 

And  now  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  his  hard  breathing,  and  the  noise 
he  made  turning  the  leaves,  for  he  very  soon  found  he  was  obliged  to  go  back  many 
lessons  to  understand  how  to  approach  the  one  before  him ;  and  with  cheeks  grow- 
ing every  instant  more  scarlet  with  shame  and  confusion,  the  drops  of  perspiration 
ran  down  his  forehead  and  fell  on  his  book. 

"  Whew  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  it's  horribly  hot,"  and  pushing  back  his  book,  he 
tiptoed  over  to  the  other  window  and  softly  raised  it.  The  cdol  air  blew  into  his 
face,  and  leaning  far  out  into  the  dark  night,  he  drew  in  deep  breaths. 

"  I've  skinned  through  and  saved  my  neck  a  thousand  times,"  he  reflected, 
"and  now  I've  got  to  dig  like  sixty  to  make  up.  There's  Dave  now,  sleeping  in 
there  like  a  cat ;  he  don't  have  anything  to  do,  but  to  run  ahead  of  the  class  like 
lightning — just  because  he"  — 

"Loves  it,"  something  seemed  to  sting  the  words  into  him.  Joel  drew  in  his 
head  and  turned  abruptly  away  from  the  window. 

"  Pshaw !  well,  here  goes,"  he  exclaimed  again,  throwing  himself  into  his  chair. 
"  She  said  '  I'd  work  myself  to  skin  and  bone,  but  I'd  go  through  creditably.' '  Joel 
bared  his  brown  arm  and  regarded  it  critically.  "  I  wonder  how  'twould  look  all 
skin  and  bone,"  and  he  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  But  this  isn't  studying."  He  pulled  down  his  sleeve,  and  his  head  went  over 
the  book  again. 

MARGARET  SIDNEY. 


CRADLE. 

.  .  .  Our  servant  knows  a  few  words  of  English,  too  ;  her  name  is  Cradle, 
the  short  for  Margaret.  Jane  wanted  a  fowl  to  boil  for  me.  Now  she  has  a  theory 
that  the  more  she  makes  her  English  un-English,  the  more  it  must  be  like  German. 
Jane  begins  by  showing  Gradle  a  word  in  the  dictionary. 

Cradle.  —  "  Ja  !  yees  —  hiihn  —  henne  —  ja !  yees." 

Jane  (a  little  through  her  nose).  —  "  Hmn  —  hum  —  hem  —  yes  — yaw,  ken  you 
geet  a  fowl  —  fool  —  foal,  to  boil  —  bile  —  bole  for  dinner  ? " 
Gradle.  —  "Hot  wasser  ?  " 

Jane.  —  "  Yaw,  in  pit  —  pat  —  pot  — hmn  —  hum  —  eh  !  " 
Gradle  (a  little  off  the  scent  again).  —  "  Ja,  nein  —  wasser,  pot  —  hot  —  nein." 

Jane. — "Yes  —  no  —  good  to  eeat  —  chicken  —  cheeken  —  checking  —  chok- 


244 


KIN    BEYOND     SEA. 


ing  —  bird  —  bard  —  beard  —  lays  eggs  —  eeggs  —  hune,  Heine  —  bin —  make  cheekin 
broth  —  soup  —  poultry  —  peltry  —  paltry  !  " 

Cradle  (quite  at  fault).  —  "  Pfeltrighchtch  !  — nein." 

Jane  (in   despair).  —  "  What  shall   I   do  !  and   Hood  won't   help  me,   he  only 

laughs.  This  comes  of  leaving  England  !  "  (She  casts 
her  eyes  across  the  street  at  the  governor's  poultry-yard, 
and  a  bright  thought  strikes  her.)  "  Here,  Gradle 

—  come   here  —  comb  hair  —  hmn  —  hum  —  look  there 
— dare  —  you  see  things  walking  —  hmn,  hum — wack- 
ing  about  —  things  with  feathers  — fathers  — feethers." 

Gradle  (hitting  it  off  again).  —  "Feethers  —  faders 

—  ah  hah  !  fedders —  ja,  ja,  yees,  sie  bringen  —  fedders, 
ja,  ja!" 

Jane  echoes  "  Fedders  —  yes  —  yaw,  yaw  !  " 

Exit  Gradle,  and  after  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  returns  triumphantly  with  two 
bundles  of  stationer's  quills  !  ! !     .     .     . 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


KIN     BEYOND     SEA. 

BUT  if  there  be  those  in  this  country  who  think  that  American  democracy 
means  public  levity  and  intemperance,  or  a  lack  of  skill  and  sagacity  in  politics,  or 
the  absence  of  self-command  and  self-denial,  let  them  bear  in  mind  a  few  of  the 
most  salient  and  recent  facts  of  history  which  may  profitably  be  recommended  to 
their  reflections.  We  emancipated  a  million  of  negroes  by  peaceful  legislation  ; 
America  liberated  four  or  five  millions  by  a  bloody  civil  war  :  yet  the  industry  and 
exports  of  the  Southern  States  are  maintained,  while  those  of  our  negro  colonies 
have  dwindled  ;  the  South  enjoys  all  its  franchises,  but  we  have,  proh  pudor! 
found  no  better  method  of  providing  for  peace  and  order  in  Jamaica,  the  chief  of 
our  islands,  than  by  the  hard  and  vulgar,  even  where  needful,  expedient  of  abolish- 
ing entirely  its  representative  institutions. 

The  Civil  War  compelled  the  States,  both  North  and  South,  to  train  and  em- 
body a  million  and  a  half  of  men,  and  to  present  to  view  the  greatest,  instead  of 
the  smallest,  armed  forces  in  the  world.  Here  there  was  supposed  to  arise  a  double 
danger.  First,  that  on  a  sudden  cessation  of  the  war,  military  life  and  habits 
could  not  be  shaken  off,  and,  having  become  rudely  and  widely  predominant,  would 
bias  the  country  toward  an  aggressive  policy,  or,  still  worse,  would  find  vent  in 
predatory  or  revolutionary  operations.  Secondly,  that  a  military  caste  would  grow 
up  with  its  habits  of  exclusiveness  and  command,  and  would  influence  the  tone  of 
politics  in  a  direction  adverse  to  republican  freedom.  But  both  apprehensions 


WILLIAM    E.    GLADSTONE. 


KIN    BEYOND    SEA.  247 

proved  to  be  wholly  imaginary.  The  innumerable  soldiery  was  at  once  dissolved. 
Cincinnatus,  no  longer  an  unique  example,  became  the  commonplace  of  every  day, 
the  type  and  mould  of  a  nation.  The  whole  enormous  mass  quietly  resumed  the 
habits  of  social  life.  The  generals  of  yesterday  were  the  editors,  the  secretaries, 
and  the  solicitors  of  to-day.  The  just  jealousy  of  the  State  gave  life  to  the  now 
forgotten  maxim  of  Judge  Blackstone,  who  denounced  as  perilous  the  erection  of  a 
separate  profession  of  arms  in  a  free  country.  The  standing  army,  expanded  by 
the  heat  of  civil  contest  to  gigantic  dimensions,  settled  down  again  into  the  frame- 
work of  a  miniature  with  the  returning  temperature  of  civil  life,  and  became  a 
power  wellnigh  invisible,  from  its  minuteness,  amidst  the  powers  which  sway  the 
movements  of  a  society  exceeding  forty  millions. 

More  remarkable  still  was  the  financial  sequel  to  the  great  conflict.  The  in- 
ternal taxation  for  Federal  purposes,  which  before  its  commencement  had  been  un- 
known, was  raised,  in  obedience  to  an  exigency  of  life  and  death,  so  as  to  exceed 
every  present  and  every  past  example.  It  pursued  and  worried  all  the  transactions 
of  life.  The  interest  of  the  American  debt  grew  to  be  the  highest  in  the  world, 
and  the  capital  touched  five  hundred  and  sixty  millions  sterling.  Here  was  pro- 
vided for  the  faith  and  patience  of  the  people  a  touchstone  of  extreme  severity.  In 
England,  at  the  close  of  the  great  French  war,  the  propertied  classes,  who  were 
supreme  in  Parliament,  at  once  rebelled  against  the  Tory  Government,  and  refused 
to  prolong  the  income  tax  even  for  a  single  year.  We  talked  big,  both  then  and 
now,  about  the  payment  of  our  national  debt ;  but  sixty-three  years  have  since 
elapsed,  all  of  them  except  two  called  years  of  peace,  and  we  have  reduced  the 
huge  total  by  about  one  ninth  ;  that  is  to  say,  by  little  over  one  hundred  millions, 
or  scarcely  more  than  one  million  and  a  half  a  year.  This  is  the  conduct  of  a  State 
elaborately  digested  into  orders  and  degrees,  famed  for  wisdom  and  forethought, 
and  consolidated  by  a  long  experience.  But  America  continued  long  to  bear,  on 
her  unaccustomed  and  still  smarting  shoulders,  the  burden  of  the  war  taxation. 
In  twelve  years  she  has  reduced  her  debt  by  one  hundred  and  fifty-eight  millions 
sterling,  or  at  the  rate  of  thirteen  millions  for  every  year.  In  each  twelve  months 
she  has  done  what  we  did  in  eight  years  ;  her  self-command,  self-denial,  and  wise 
forethought  for  the  future  have  been,  to  say  the  least,  eightfold  ours.  These  are 
facts  which  redound  greatly  to  her  honor ;  and  the  historian  will  record  with  sur- 
prise that  an  enfranchised  nation  tolerated  burdens  which  in  this  country  a  selected 
class,  possessed  of  the  representation,  did  not  dare  to  face,  and  that  the  most  un- 
mitigated democracy  known  to  the  annals  of  the  world  resolutely  reduced  at  its 
own  cost  prospective  liabilities  of  the  State,  which  the  aristocratic,  and  plutocratic, 
and  monarchical  government  of  the  United  Kingdom  has  been  contented  ignobly 
to  hand  over  to  posterity.  And  such  facts  should  be  told  out.  It  is  our  fashion 
so  to  tell  them,  against  as  well  as  for  ourselves  ;  and  the  record  of  them  may  some 
day  be  among  the  means  of  stirring  us  up  to  a  policy  more  worthy  of  the  name  and 
fame  of  England. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  we  lie  under  some  heavy  and,  I  fear,  increasing  disad- 
vantages, which  amount  almost  to  disabilities.  Not,  however,  any  disadvantage 


248  KIN    BEYOND     SEA. 

respecting  power,  as  power  is  commonly  understood.  But,  while  America  has  a 
nearly  homogeneous  country,  and  an  admirable  division  of  political  labor  between 
the  States  individually  and  the  Federal  Government,  we  are,  in  public  affairs,  an 
overcharged  and  overweighted  people. 

We  have  undertaken  the  cares  of  empire  upon  a  scale,  and  with  a  diversity,  un- 
exampled in  history  ;  and,  as  it  has  not  yet  pleased  Providence  to  endow  us  with 
brain-force  and  animal  strength  in  an  equally  abnormal  proportion,  the  consequence 
is  that  we  perform  the  work  of  government,  as  to  many  among  its  more  important 
departments,  in  a  very  superficial  and  slovenly  manner.  The  affairs  of  the  three 
associated  kingdoms,  with  their  great  diversities  of  law,  interest,  and  circumstance, 
make  the  government  of  them,  even  if  they  stood  alone,  a  business  more  voluminous, 
so  to  speak,  than  that  of  any  other  thirty-three  millions  of  civilized  men.  To 
lighten  the  cares  of  the  central  legislature  by  judicious  devolution,  it  is  probable 
that  much  might  be  done  ;  but  nothing  is  done,  or  even  attempted  to  be  clone. 
The  greater  colonies  have  happily  attained  to  a  virtual  self-government  ;  yet  the 
aggregate  mass  of  business  connected  with  our  colonial  possessions  continues  to 
be  very  large.  The  Indian  Empire  is  of  itself  a  charge  so  vast,  and  demanding  so 
much  thought  and  care,  that  if  it  were  the  sole  transmarine  appendage  to  the 
Crown,  it  would  amply  tax  the  best  ordinary  stock  of  human  energies.  Notoriously 
it  obtains  from  the  Parliament  only  a  small  fraction  of  the  attention  it  deserves. 
Questions  affecting  individuals,  again,  or  small  interests,  or  classes,  excite  here  a 
greater  interest,  and  occupy  a  larger  share  of  time,  than,  perhaps,  in  any  other  com- 
munity. In  no  country,  I  may  add,  are  the  interests  of  persons  or  classes  so  favored 
when  they  compete  with  those  of  the  public  ;  and  in  none  are  they  more  exacting, 
or  more  wakeful  to  turn  this  advantage  to  the  best  account.  With  the  vast  exten- 
sion of  our  enterprise  and  our  trade,  comes  a  breadth  of  liability  not  less  large,  to 
consider  every  thing  that  is  critical  in  the  affairs  of  foreign  states ;  and  the  real 
responsibilities  thus  existing  for  us,  are  unnaturally  inflated  for  us  by  fast-growing 
tendencies  toward  exaggeration  of  our  concern  in  these  matters,  and  even  toward 
setting  up  fictitious  interests  in  cases  where  none  can  discern  them  except  our- 
selves, and  such  continental  friends  as  practice  upon  our  credulity  and  our  fears 
for  purposes  of  their  own.  Last  of  all,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  in  what  I  have 
been  saying,  I  do  not  represent  the  public  sentiment.  The  nation  is  not  at  all 
conscious  of  being  overdone.  The  people  see  that  their  House  of  Commons  is  the 
hardest-working  legislative  assembly  in  the  world  :  and,  this  being  so,  they  assume 
it  is  all  right.  Nothing  pays  better,  in  point  of  popularity,  than  those  gratuitous 
additions  to  obligations  already  beyond  human  strength,  which  look  like  accessions 
or  assertion  of  power  ;  such  as  the  annexation  of  new  territory,  or  the  silly  trans- 
action known  as  the  purchase  of  shares  in  the  Suez  Canal. 

All  my  life  long  I  have  seen  this  excess  of  work  as  compared  with  the  power  to 
do  it ;  but  this  evil  has  increased  with  the  surfeit  of  wealth,  and  there  is  no  sign 
that  the  increase  is  near  its  end.  The  people  of  this  country  are  a  very  strong 
people;  but  there  is  no  strength  that  can  permanently  endure,  without  provoking 
inconvenient  consequences,  this  kind  of  political  debauch.  It  may  be  hoped,  but 


KIN    BEYOND     SEA.  249 

it  cannot  be  predicted,  that  the  mischief  will  be  encountered  and  subdued  at  the 
point  where  it  will  have  become  sensibly  troublesome,  but  will  not  have  grown  to 
be  quite  irremediable. 

The  main  and  central  point  of  interest,  however,  in  the  institutions  of  a  country 
is  the  manner  in  which  it  draws  together  and  compounds  the  public  forces  in  the 
balanced  action  of  the  State.  It  seems  plain  that  the  formal  arrangements  for 
this  purpose  in  America  are  very  different  from  ours.  It  may  even  be  a  question 
whether  they  are  not,  in  certain  respects,  less  popular ;  whether  our  institutions  do 
not  give  more  rapid  effect,  than  those  of  the  Union,  to  any  formed  opinion,  and 
resolved  intention,  of  the  nation. 

In  the  formation  of  the  Federal  Government  we  seem  to  perceive  three  stages 
of  distinct  advancement.  First,  the  formation  of  the  Confederation,  under  the 
pressure  of  the  War  of  Independence.  Secondly,  the  Constitution,  which  placed 
the  Federal  Government  in  defined  and  direct  relation  with  the  people  inhabit- 
ing the  several  States.  Thirdly,  the  struggle  with  the  South,  which  for  the  first 
time,  and  definitely,  decided  that  to  the  Union,  through  its  Federal  organization, 
and  not  to  the  State  governments,  were  reserved  all  the  questions  not  decided  and 
disposed  of  by  the  express  provisions  of  the  Constitution  itself.  The  great 
arcanum  imperil,  which  with  us  belongs  to  the  three  branches  of  the  Legislature, 
and  which  is  expressed  by  the  current  phrase,  "  omnipotence  of  Parliament,"  thus 
became  the  acknowledged  property  of  the  three  branches  of  the  Federal  Legisla- 
ture ;  and  the  old  and  respectable  doctrine  of  State  independence  is  now  no  more 
than  an  archaeological  relic,  a  piece  of  historical  antiquarianism.  Yet  the  actual 
attributions  of  the  State  authorities  cover  by  far  the  largest  part  of  the  province  of 
government ;  and  by  this  division  of  labor  and  authority,  the  problem  of  fixing  for 
the  nation  a  political  center  of  gravity  is  divested  of  a  large  part  of  its  difficulty 
and  danger,  in  some  proportions  to  the  limitations  of  the  working  precinct. 

Within  that  precinct,  the  initiation  as  well  as  the  final  sanction  in  the  great 
business  of  finance  is  made  over  to  the  popular  branch  of  the  Legislature,  and  a 
most  interesting  question  arises  upon  the  comparative  merits  of  this  arrangement, 
and  of  our  method,  which  theoretically  throws  upon  the  Crown  the  responsibility 
of  initiating  public  charge,  and  under  which,  until  a  recent  period,  our  practice  was 
in  actual  and  even  close  correspondence  with  this  theory. 

We  next  come  to  a  difference  still  more  marked.  The  Federal  Executive  is 
born  anew  of  the  nation  at  the  end  of  each  four  years,  and  dies  at  the  end.  But, 
during  the  course  of  those  years,  it  is  independent,  in  the  person  both  of  the  Presi- 
dent and  of  his  Ministers,  alike  of  the  people,  of  their  representatives,  and  of  that 
remarkable  body,  the  most  remarkable  of  all  the  inventions  of  modern  politics,  the 
Senate  of  the  United  States.  In  this  important  matter,  whatever  be  the  relative 
excellencies  and  defects  of  the  British  and  American  systems,  it  is  most  certain 
that  nothing  would  induce  the  people  of  this  country,  or  even  the  Tory  portion  of 
them,  to  exchange  our  own  for  theirs.  It  may,  indeed,  not  be  obvious  to  the 
foreign  eye  what  is  the  exact  difference  of  the  two.  Both  the  representative  cham- 
bers hold  the  power  of  the  purse.  But  in  America  its  conditions  are  such  that  it 


250  A     TRUE     CALEDONIAN. 

does  not  operate  in  any  way  on  behalf  of  the  Chamber  or  of  the  nation,  as  against 
the  Executive.  In  England,  on  the  contrary,  its  efficiency  has  been  such  that  it 
has  worked  out  for  itself  channels  of  effective  operation,  such  as  to  dispense  with  its 
direct  use,  and  avoid  the  inconveniences  which  might  be  attendant  upon  that  use. 
A  vote  of  the  House  of  Commons,  declaring  a  withdrawal  of  its  confidence,  has 
always  sufficed  for  the  purpose  of  displacing  a  Ministry ;  nay,  persistent  obstruc- 
tion of  its  measures,  and  even  lighter  causes,  have  conveyed  the  hint,  which  has 
been  obediently  taken.  But  the  people,  how  is  it  with  them  ?  Do  not  the  people 
in  England  part  with  their  power,  and  make  it  over  to  the  House  of  Commons,  as 
completely  as  the  American  people  part  with  it  to  the  President  ?  They  give  it 
over  for  four  years  :  we  for  a  period  which  on  the  average  is  somewhat  more  : 
they,  to  resume  it  at  a  fixed  time ;  we,  on  an  unfixed  contingency,  and  at  a  time 
which  will  finally  be  determined,  not  according  to  the  popular  will,  but  according 
to  the  views  of  which  a  Ministry  may  entertain  of  its  duty  or  convenience. 

WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE. 


A     TRUE     CALEDONIAN. 

I  HAVE  been  trying  all  my  life  to  like  Scotchmen,  and  am  obliged  to  desist  from 
the  experiment  in  despair.  They  cannot  like  me  —  and,  in  truth,  I  never  knew 
one  of  that  nation  who  attempted  to  do  it.  There  is  something  more  plain  and  in- 
genuous in  their  mode  of  proceeding.  We  know  one  another  at  first  sight.  There 
is  an  order  of  imperfect  intellects  (under  which  mine  must  be  content  to  rank) 
which  in  its  constitution  is  essentially  anti-Caledonian.  The  owners  of  the  sort  of 
faculties  I  allude  to,  have  minds  rather  suggestive  than  comprehensive.  They  have 
no  pretenses  to  much  clearness  or  precision  in  their  ideas,  or  in  their  mariner  of  ex- 
pressing them.  Their  intellectual  wardrobe  (to  confess  fairly)  has  few  whole  pieces 
in  it.  They  are  content  with  fragments  and  scattered  pieces  of  truth.  She  pre- 
sents no  full  front  to  them — a  feature  or  side-face  at  the  most.  Hints  and 
glimpses,  germs  and  crude  essays  at  a  system,  is  the  utmost  they  pretend  to.  They 
beat  up  a  little  game  peradventure — and  leave  it  to  knottier  heads,  more  robust 
constitutions,  to  run  it  down.  The  light  that  lights  them  is  not  steady  and  polar, 
but  mutable  and  shifting :  waxing,  and  again  waning.  Their  conversation  is  ac- 
cordingly. They  will  throw  out  a  random  word  in  or  out  of  season,  and  be  content 
to  let  it  pass  for  what  it  is  worth.  They  cannot  speak  always  as  if  they  were  upon 
their  oath  —  but  must  be  understood,  speaking  or  writing,  with  some  abatement. 
They  seldom  wait  to  mature  a  proposition,  but  e'en  bring  it  to  market  in  the  green 
ear.  They  delight  to  impart  their  defective  discoveries  as  they  arise,  without  wait- 
ing for  their  full  development.  They  are  no  systematizers,  and  would  but  err  more 
by  attempting  it.  Their  minds,  as  I  said  before,  are  suggestive  merely.  The  brain 


A     TRUE     CALEDONIAN. 


of  a  true  Caledonian  (if  I  am  not  mistaken)  is  constituted  upon  quite  a  different  plan. 
His  Minerva  is  born  in  panoply.  You  are  never  admitted  to  see  his  ideas  in  their 
growth  — if,  indeed,  they  do  grow,  and  are  not  rather  put  together  upon  principles 
of  clock-work.  You  never  catch  his  mind  in  an  undress.  He  never  hints  or  sug- 
gests any  thing,  but  unlades  his  stock  of  ideas  in  perfect  order  and  completeness. 
He  brings  his  total  wealth  into  company,  and  gravely  unpacks  it.  His  riches  are 
always  about  him.  He  never  stoops  to  catch  a  glittering  something  in  your  pres- 
ence to  share  it  with  you,  before  he  quite  knows  whether  it  be  true  touch  or  not. 
You  cannot  cry  halves  to  anything  that  he  finds.  He  does  not  find,  but  bring. 
You  never  witness  his  first  apprehension  of  a  thing.  His  understanding  is  always 
at  its  meridian — you  never  see  the  first  dawn,  the  early  streaks.  He  has  no  fal- 
terings  of  self-suspicion.  Surmises,  guesses,  misgivings,  half-intuitions,  semi-con- 
sciousnesses, partial  illuminations,  dim  instincts,  embryo  conceptions,  have  no  place 
in  his  brain  or  vocabulary.  The  twilight  of  dubiety  never  falls  upon  him.  Is  he 
orthodox — he  has  no  doubts.  Is  he  an  infidel  —  he  has  none  either.  Between 
the  affirmative  anr1  :he  negative  there  is  no  borderland  with  him.  You  cannot 
hover  with  him  upon  the  confines  of  truth,  or  wander  in  the  maze  of  a  probable 
argument.  He  always  keeps  the  path.  You  cannot  make  excursions  with  him  — 
for  he  sets  you  right.  His  taste  never  fluctuates.  His  morality  never  abates. 
He  cannot  compromise,  or  understand  middle  actions.  There  can  be  but  a  right 
and  a  wrong.  His  conversation  is  as  a  book.  His 
affirmations  have  the  sanctity  of  an  oath.  You 
must  speak  upon  the  square  with  him.  He  stops 
a  metaphor  like  a  suspected  person  in  an  enemy's 
country.  "  A  healthy  book  ?  "  said  one  of  his 
countrymen  to  me,  who  had  ventured  to  give  that 
appellation  to  "John  Buncle,"  •  —  "  did  I  catch 
rightly  what  you  said  ?  I  have  heard  of  a  man  in 
health,  and  of  a  healthy  state  of  body,  but  I  do 
not  see  how  that  epithet  can  be  properly  applied 
to  a  book."  Above  all,  you  must  beware  of  indi- 
rect expressions  before  a  Caledonian.  Clap  an 
extinguisher  upon  your  irony  if  you  are  unhappily 
blessed  with  a  vein  of  it.  Remember  you  are 
upon  your  oath.  I  have  a  print  of  a  graceful 
female  after  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  which  I  was  show- 
ing off  to  Mr.  .  After  he  had  examined  it 

minutely,  I  ventured  to  ask  him  how  he  liked  my 

beauty  (a   foolish    name  it   goes    by   among   my 

friends)  —  when  he  very  gravely  assured  me,  that 

"  he  had  considerable  respect  for  my  character  and 

talents"  (so  he  was  pleased  to   say),  "but  had  not  given  himself  much  thought 

about  the  degree  of  my  personal  pretensions."     The  misconception  staggered  me, 

but  did   not  seem  much  to  disconcert  him.     Persons  of  this  nation  are  particularly 


A   TYPICAL   CALEDONIAN. 


252  SIGHT    AND    INSIGHT. 

fond  of  affirming  a  truth  — which  nobody  doubts.  They  do  not  so  properly  affirm, 
as  annunciate  it.  They  do  indeed  appear  to  have  such  a  love  for  truth  (as  if,  like 
virtue,  it  were  valuable  for  itself)  that  all  truth  becomes  equally  valuable,  whether 
the  proposition  that  contains  it  be  new  or  old,  disputed,  or  such  as  is  impossible  to 
become  a  subject  of  disputation.  I  was  present  not  long  since  at  a  party  of  North 
Britons,  where  a  son  of  Burns  was  expected  ;  and  happened  to  drop  a  silly  expres- 
sion (in  my  South  British  way) ,  that  I  wished  it  were  the  father  instead  of  the  son 
—  when  four  of  them  started  up  at  once  to  inform  me,  that  "that  was  impossible, 
because  he  was  dead." 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


SIGHT     AND     INSIGHT. 

THERE  may  be  a  meadow  farm  among  the  mountains.  The  heir  to  it  gets  a 
cabbage  and  a  corn  crop  from  it,  suspecting  no  other  latent  fertility  and  produce. 
A  man  of  science  buys  it,  gets  no  less  cabbages  and  hay,  but  reaps  a  geology-crop 
as  well. 

An  artist  buys  it,  and  lo  !  a  harvest  of  beauty  and  delight,  budding  even  when 
the  grain  is  garnered,  dropping  sweet  into  his  eyes  even  from  arctic  dawns  and 
blazing  snows.  A  man  of  deepest  insight  lives  on  it,  and  the  laws  of  his  farm  open 
to  him  the  prudence  and  prodigality  of  Providence.  In  the  way  the  grain  grows, 
the  enemies  it  has,  the  friendships  of  all  good  forces  to  its  advance,  in  the  chemistry 
of  his  farming,  in  the  peace  that  sleeps  on  the  hills,  in  the  gathering  and  retreat 
of  storms,  in  the  soft  approach  of  spring,  and  the  melancholy  death,  —  he  reads 
lessons  that  become  inmost  wisdom.  He  has  a  faculty  that  is  the  sickle  of  more 
subtle  crop-sheaves  of  spiritual  truth.  ... 

Just  as  there  are  spelling-classes  for  the  youngest  scholars  in  our  schools,  in 
which  the  separate  letters  are  the  chief  things  they  see,  where  the  great  problem 
is  to  combine  them  into  words,  and  where  the  mental  organs  are  not  capable  of 
configuring  words  into  propositions,  —  so  very  few  of  us  on  the  planet  ever  get 
able  to  handle  the  letters  of  nature  easily,  ever  get  beyond  the  power  of  spelling 
them  into  single  words.  Some  are  able  to  read  off  the  aspects  of  creation  into 
science.  They  can  put  the  stars  together  into  paragraphs  that  state  laws  and  har- 
monies and  grandeurs.  Some  go  farther,  and  rhyme  the  mighty  vocabulary  of 
science  into  beauty  ;  but  few  get  such  command  of  the  language  that  they  see  and 
rejoice  in  the  highest,  glorious  truth  which  the  volume  holds.  .  .  . 

Insight,  therefore,  opens  the  intellectual  world  of  law  and  harmony  beneath  the 
world  of  physical  shows ;  within  that,  the  world  of  beauty  ;  within  that  again,  the 
realm  of  spiritual  language.  In  the  human  world  it  shows,  deep  behind  deep,  law 
working  in  society,  controlling  politics  and  shaping  the  destiny  of  nations  ;  while, 


AN    APOLOGY    FOR    ENGLISH. 


253 


in  the  individual  sphere,  it  unveils  man  as  the  epitome  of  the  universe,  clad  continually 
in  the  electric  vesture  of  his  character. 

Every  man,  as  every  animal,  has  sight  ;  but  just  according  to  the  scale  of  his 
insight  is  the  world  he  lives  in  a  deep  one,  an  awful  one,  a  mystic  and  glorious 
world.  We  see  what  is,  only  as  we  see  into  what  appears. 

Out  of  three  roots  grows  the  great  tree  of  nature,  —  truth,  beauty,  good.  The 
man  of  science  follows  up  its  mighty  stem,  measures  it,  and  sees  its  branches  in 
the  silver-leaved  boughs  of  the  firmament.  The  poet  delights  in  the  symmetry  of 
its  strength,  the  grace  of  its  arches,  the  flush  of  its  fruit.  Only  to  the  man  with 
finer  eye  than  both  is  the  secret  glory  of  it  unveiled  ;  for  his  vision  discerns  how  it 
is  fed  and  in  what  air  it  thrives.  To  him  it  is  only  an  expansion  of  the  burning 
bush  on  Horeb,  seen  by  the  solemn  prophet,  glowing  continually  with  the  presence 
of  Infinite  Law  and  Love,  yet  standing  forever  unconsumecl. 

THOMAS  STARR  KING. 


AN     APOLOGY     FOR     ENGLISH. 

IF  any  man  would  blame  me  either  for  taking  such  a  matter  in  hand,  or  else  for 
writing  it  in  the  English  tongue,  this  answer  I  may  make  him,  that  when  the  best 
of  the  realm  think  it  honest  for  them  to  use,  I,  one  of  the  meanest  sort,  ought  not 
to  suppose  it  vile  for  me  to  write  :  and  though  to  have  written  it  in  another  tongue 
had  been  both  more  profitable  for  my  study,  and  also  more  honest  for  my  name, 
yet  I  can  think  my  labour  well  bestowed,  if  with  a  little  hinderance  of  my  profit 
and  name  may  come  any  furtherance  to  the  pleasure  or  commodity  of  the  gentle- 
men and  yeomen  of  England,  for  whose  sake  I  took  this  matter  in  hand.  And  as 
for  the  Latin  or  Greek  tongue,  every  thing  is  so  excellently  done  in  them,  that 
none  can  do  better  ;  in  the  English  tongue,  contrary,  every  thing  in  a  manner  so 
meanly,  both  for  the  matter  and  handling,  that  no  man  can  do  worse.  For  therein 
the  least  learned,  for  the  most  part,  have  been  always  most  ready  to  write.  And 
they  which  had  least  hope  in  Latin  have  been  most  bold  in  English  :  when  surely 
every  man  that  is  most  ready  to  talk  is  not  most  able  to  write.  He  that  will  write 
well  in  any  tongue,  must  follow  this  counsel  of  Aristotle,  to  speak  as  the  common 
people  do,  to  think  as  wise  men  do :  as  so  should  every  man  understand  him,  and 
the  judgment  of  wise  men  allow  him.  Many  English  writers  have  not  done  so, 
but,  using  strange  words,  as  Latin,  French,  and  Italian,  do  make  all  things  dark 
and  hard.  Once  I  communed  with  a  man  which  reasoned  the  English  tongue  to 
be  enriched  and  increased  thereby,  saying,  Who  will  not  praise  that  feast  where  a 
man  shall  drink  at  a  dinner  both  wine,  ale,  and  beer  ?  Truly,  (quoth  I)  they  be  all 
good,  every  one  taken  by  himself  alone,  but  if  you  put  malvesye  and  sack,  red  wine 
and  white,  ale  and  beer,  and  all  in  one  pot,  you  shall  make  a  drink  not  easy  to  be 
known,  nor  yet  wholesome  for  the  body.  ROGER  ASCHAM. 


254 


THE    JUSTICE     OF    RIENZI    THE     TRIBUNE. 


ARRAYED    FOR    DEFENSE. 


THE     JUSTICE     OF     RIENZI     THE     TRIBUNE. 

ALL  that  night  the  conspirators  remained  within  that  room,  the  doors  locked  and 
guarded  ;  the  banquet  unremoved,  and  its  splendor  strangely  contrasting  the  mood 
of  the  guests. 

The  utter  prostration  and  despair  of  these  dastard  criminals — so  unlike  the 
knightly  nobles  of  France  and  England,  has  been  painted  by  the  historian  in  odious 
and  withering  colors.  The  old  Colonna  alone  sustained  his  impetuous  and  imperi- 
ous character.  He  strode  to  and  fro  the  room  like  a  lion  in  his  cage,  uttering  loud 


THE    JUSTICE     OF    RIENZI    THE     TRIBUNE.  255 

threats  of  resentment  and  defiance  ;  and  beating  at  the  door  with  his  clenched 
hands,  demanding  egress,  and  proclaiming  the  vengeance  of  the  Pontiff. 

The  dawn  came,  slow  and  gray,  upon  that  agonized  assembly  ;  and  just  as  the 
last  star  faded  from  the  melancholy  horizon,  and  by  the  wan  and  comfortless 
heaven,  they  regarded  each  other's  faces,  almost  spectral  with  anxiety  and  fear,  the 
great  bell  of  the  Capitol  sounded  the  notes  in  which  they  well  recognized  the  chime 
of  death  !  It  was  then  that  the  door  opened,  and  a  drear  and  gloomy  procession  of 
cordeliers,  one  to  each  baron,  entered  the  apartment  !  At  that  spectacle,  we  are  told, 
the  terror  of  the  conspirators  was  so  great,  that  it  froze  up  the  very  power  of  speech. 
The  greater  part  at  length,  deeming  all  hope  over,  resigned  themselves  to  their 
ghostly  confessors.  But  when  the  friar  appointed  to  Stephen  approached  that 
passionate  old  man,  he  waved  his  hand  impatiently,  and  said,  —  "  Tease  me  not ! 
tease  me  not !  " 

"Nay,  son,  prepare  for  the  awful  hour." 

"  Son,  indeed  !  "  quoth  the  baron.  "  I  am  old  enough  to  be  thy  grandsire  ;  and 
for  the  rest,  tell  him  who  sent  thee,  that  I  neither  am  prepared  for  death,  nor 
will  prepare  !  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  live  these  twenty  years,  and  longer 
too ;  if  I  catch  not  my  death  with  the  cold  of  this  accursed  night." 

Just  at  that  moment  a  cry  that  almost  seemed  to  rend  the  Capitol  asunder  was 
heard,  as,  with  one  voice,  the  multitude  below  yelled  forth,  — 

"  Death  to  the  conspirators  !  — death  !  death  !  " 

While  this  the  scene  in  that  hall,  the  Tribune  issued  from  his  chamber,  in  which 
he  had  been  closeted  with  his  wife  and  sister.  The  noble  spirit  of  the  one,  the  tears 
and  grief  of  the  other  (who  saw  at  one  fell  stroke  perish  the  house  of  her  betrothed), 
had  not  worked  without  effect  upon  a  temper,  stern  and  just  indeed,  but  naturally 
averse  from  blood  ;  and  a  heart  capable  of  the  loftiest  species  of  revenge. 

He  entered  the  council,  still  sitting,  with  a  calm  brow,  and  even  a  cheerful 
eye. 

"  Pandulfo  di  Guido,"  he  said,  turning  to  that  citizen,  "  you  are  right  ;  you 
spoke  as  a  wise  man  and  a  patriot,  when  you  said  that  to  cut  off  with  one  blow, 
however  merited,  the  noblest  heads  of  Rome,  would  endanger  the  state,  sully  our 
purple  with  an  indelible  stain,  and  unite  the  nobility  of  Italy  against  us." 

"  Such,  Tribune,  was  my  argument,  though  the  council  have  decided  otherwise." 

"  Hearken  to  the  shouts  of  the  populace,  you  cannot  appease  their  honest 
warmth,"  said  the  demagogue  Baroncelli. 

Many  of  the  council  murmured  applause. 

"Friends,"  said  the  Tribune,  with  a  solemn  and  earnest  aspect,  "let  not  pos- 
terity say  that  liberty  loves  blood  ;  let  us  for  once  adopt  the  example  and  imitate 
the  mercy  of  our  great  Redeemer!  We  have  triumphed  —  let  us  forbear  ;  we  are 
saved  —  let  us  forgive  !  " 

The  speech  of  the  Tribune  was  supported  by  Pandulfo,  and  others  of  the  more 
mild  and  moderate  policy  ;  and  after  a  short  but  animated  discussion,  the  influence 
of  Rienzi  prevailed,  and  the  sentence  of  death  was  revoked,  but  by  a  small 
majority. 


256  THE    JUSTICE     OF    RIENZI    THE     TRIBUNE. 

"And  now,"  said  Rienzi,  "let  us  be  more  than  just;  let  us  be  generous. 
Speak  —  and  boldly.  Do  any  of  ye  think  that  I  have  been  over-hard,  over-haughty 
with  these  stubborn  spirits  ?  —  I  read  your  answer  in  your  brows  !  —  I  have  !  Do 
any  of  ye  think  this  error  of  mine  may  have  stirred  them  to  their  dark  revenge? 
Do  any  of  you  deem  that  they  partake,  as  we  do,  of  human  nature,  —  that  they  are 
softened  by  generosity,  — that  they  can  be  tamed  and  disarmed  by  such  vengeance 
as  is  dictated  to  noble  foes  by  Christian  laws  ? " 

"  I  think,"  said  Pandulfo,  after  a  pause,  "  that  it  will  not  be  in  human  nature 
if  the  men  you  pardon,  thus  offending  and  thus  convicted,  again  attempt  your 
life  !  " 

"  Methinks,"  said  Rienzi,  "  we  must  do  even  more  than  pardon.  The  first  great 
Caesar,  when  he  did  not  crush  a  foe,  strove  to  convert  him  to  a  friend  "  — 

"And  perished  by  the  attempt,"  said  Baroncelli,  abruptly. 

Rienzi  started  and  changed  color. 

"  If  you  would  save  these  wretched  prisoners,  better  not  wait  till  the  fury  of  the 
mob  become  ungovernable,"  whispered  Pandulfo. 

The  Tribune  aroused  himself  from  his  reverie. 

"  Pandulfo,"  said  he,  in  the  same  tone,  "my  heart  misgives  me  —  the  brood  of 
serpents  are  in  my  hand  —  I  do  not  strangle  them  —  they  may  sting  me  to  death, 
in  return  for  my  mercy  —  it  is  their  instinct!  No  matter:  it  shall  not  be  said 
that  the  Roman  Tribune  bought  with  so  many  lives  his  own  safety :  nor  shall  it  be 
written  upon  my  grave-stone,  '  Here  lies  the  coward,  who  did  not  dare  forgive.' 
What,  lo  !  there,  officers,  unclose  the  doors  !  My  masters,  let  us  acquaint  the 
prisoners  with  their  sentence." 

With  that,  Rienzi  seated  himself  on  the  chair  of  state,  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  the  sun,  now  risen,  cast  its  rays  over  the  blood-red  walls,  in  which  the  barons, 
marshalled  in  order  into  the  chamber,  thought  to  read  their  fate. 

"  My  lords,"  said  the  Tribune,  "  ye  have  offended  the  laws  of  God  and  man  ! 
but  God  teaches  man  the  quality  of  mercy.  Learn  at  last,  that  I  bear  a  charmed 
life.  Nor  is  he  whom,  for  high  purposes,  Heaven  hath  raised  from  the  cottage 
to  the  popular  throne,  without  invisible  aid  and  spiritual  protection.  If  hereditary 
monarchs  are  deemed  sacred,  how  much  more  one  in  whose  power  the  divine  hand 
hath  writ  his  witness  !  Yes,  over  him  who  lives  but  for  his  country,  whose  great- 
ness is  his  country's  gift,  whose  life  is  his  country's  liberty,  watch  the  souls  of  the 
just,  and  the  unsleeping  eyes  of  the  sworded  seraphim  !  Taught  by  your  late 
failure  and  your  present  peril,  bid  your  anger  against  me  cease  ;  respect  the  laws, 
revere  the  freedom  of  your  city,  and  think  that  no  state  presents  a  nobler  spectacle 
than  men  born  as  ye  are  —  a  patrician  and  illustrious  order  —  using  your  power  to 
protect  your  city,  your  wealth  to  nurture  its  arts,  your  chivalry  to  protect  its  laws ! 
Take  back  your  swords  —  arid  the  first  man  who  strikes  against  the  liberties  of 
Rome,  let  him  be  your  victim  ;  even  though  that  victim  be  the  Tribune.  Your 
cause  has  been  tried  —  your  sentence  is  pronounced.  Renew  your  oath  to  forbear 
all  hostility,  private  or  public,  against  the  government  and  the  magistrates  of  Rome, 
and  ye  are  pardoned  —  ye  are  free !  " 


AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE    IROQUO1S.  257 

Amazed,  bewildered,  the  barons  mechanically  bent  the  knee  :  the  friars  who 
had  received  their  confessions,  administered  the  appointed  oath  ;  and  while,  with 
white  lips,  they  muttered  the  solemn  words,  they  heard  below  the  roar  of  the 
multitude  for  their  blood. 

The  ceremony  ended,  the  Tribune  passed  into  the  banquet-hall,  which  conducted 
to  a  balcony,  whence  he  was  accustomed  to  address  the  people  ;  and  never,  perhaps, 
was  his  wonderful  mastery  over  the  passions  of  an  audience  ("  ad  persuadendum 
efficax  dictator,  quoque  dulcis  ac  lepidus  ")  more  greatly  needed  or  more  eminently 
shown,  than  on  that  day  ;  for  the  fury  of  the  people  was  at  its  height,  and  it  was 
long  ere  he  succeeded  in  turning  it  aside.  Before  he  concluded,  however,  every 
wave  of  the  wild  sea  lay  hushed.  The  orator  lived  to  stand  on  the  same  spot, 
to  plead  for  a  life  nobler  than  those  he  now  saved,  — and  to  plead  unheard  and  in 
vain  ! 

As  soon  as  the  Tribune  saw  the  favorable  moment  had  arrived,  the  barons  were 
admitted  into  the  balcony  :  —  in  the  presence  of  the  breathless  thousands,  they  sol- 
emnly pledged  themselves  to  protect  the  Good  Estate.  And  thus  the  morning 
which  seemed  to  dawn  upon  their  execution,  witnessed  their  reconciliation  with  the 
people. 

The  crowd  dispersed,  the  majority  soothed  and  pleased  —  the  more  sagacious, 
vexed  and  dissatisfied. 

"  He  has  but  increased  the  smoke  and  the  flame  which  he  was  not  able  to  extin- 
guish," growled  Cecco  del  Vecchio  ;  and  the  smith's  appropriate  saying  passed  into 
a  proverb  and  a  prophecy. 

LORD  LYTTON. 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  THE  IROQUOIS. 

"'TWOULD  be  neglecting  a  warning  that  is  given  for  our  good,  to  lie  hid  any 
longer,"  said  Hawk-eye,  "  when  such  sounds  are  raised  in  the  forest  !  These  gen- 
tle ones  may  keep  close,  but  the  Mohicans  and  I  will  watch  upon  the  rock,  where 
I  suppose  a  major  of  the  6oth  would  wish  to  keep  us  company." 

"  Is  then  our  danger  so  pressing  ?  "  asked  Cora. 

"  He  who  makes  strange  sounds,  and  gives  them  out  for  man's  information, 
alone  knows  our  danger.  I  should  think  myself  wicked,  unto  rebellion  against  his 
will,  was  I  to  burrow  with  such  warnings  in  the  air  !  Even  the  weak  soul  who 
passes  his  days  in  singing,  is  stirred  by  the  cry,  and,  as  he  says,  is  'ready  to  go 
forth  to  the  battle.'  If  'twere  only  a  battle,  it  would  be  a  thing  understood  by  us 
all,  and  easily  managed  ;  but  I  have  heard  that  when  such  shrieks  are  atween 
heaven  and  'arth,  it  betokens  another  sort  of  warfare  !  " 

"  If  all  our  reasons  for  fear,  my  friend,  are  confined  to  such  as  proceed  from  super- 
natural causes,  we  have  but  little  occasion  to  be  alarmed,"  continued  the  undisturbed 


258 


AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE     IROQUOIS. 


Cora  ;  "  are  you  certain  that  our  enemies  have  not  invented  some  new  and  ingen- 
ious method  to  strike  us  with  terror  that  their  conquest  may  become  more  easy  ?" 
"  Lady,"  returned  the  scout,  solemnly,  "  I  have  listened  to  all  the  sounds  of 
the  woods  for  thirty  years,  as  a  man  will  listen  whose  life  and  death  depend  on  the 
quickness  of  his  ears.  There  is  no  whine  of  the  panther  ;  no  whistle  of  the  cat- 
bird ;  nor  any  invention  of  the  devilish  Mingoes,  that  can  cheat  me  !  I  have  heard 
the  forest  moan  like  mortal  men  in  their  affliction  ;  often,  and  again,  have  I  lis- 
tened to  the  wind  playing  its  music  in  the  branches  of  the  girdled  trees ;  and  I 
have  heard  the  lightning  cracking  in  the  air,  like  the  snapping  of  blazing  brush,  as 
it  spitted  forth  sparks  and  forked  flames  ;  but  never  have  I  thought  that  I  heard 
more  than  the  pleasure  of  Him  who  sported  with  the  things  of  his  hand.  But 
neither  the  Mohicans,  nor  I,  who  am  a  white  man  without  a  cross,  can  explain  the 
cry  just  heard.  We,  therefore,  believe  it  is  a  sign  given  for  our  good." 

"  It  is  extraordinary  !  "  said  Heyward,  taking  his  pistols  from  the  place  where 

he  had  laid  them  on  entering  ;  "  be  it  a  sign  of 
peace  or  a  signal  of  war,  it  must  be  looked  to. 
Lead  the  way,  my  friend  ;  I  follow." 

On  issuing  from  their  place  of  confinement, 
the  whole  party  instantly  experienced  a  grate- 
ful renovation  of  spirits,  by  exchanging  the 
pent  air  of  the  hiding-place  for  the  cool  and 
invigorating  atmosphere,  which  played  around 
the  whirlpools  and  pitches  of  the  cataract.  A 
heavy  evening  breeze  swept  along  the  surface 
of  the  river,  and  seemed  to  drive  the  roar  of 
the  falls  into  the  recesses  of  their  own  caverns, 
whence  it  issued  heavily  and  constant,  like 
thunder  rumbling  beyond  the  distant  hills. 
The  moon  had  risen,  and  its  light  was  already 
glancing  here  and  there  on  the  waters  above 
them  ;  but  the  extremity  of  the  rock  where 
they  stood  still  lay  in  shadow.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  the  sounds  produced  by  the  rushing 
waters,  and  an  occasional  breathing  of  the  air, 
as  it  murmured  past  them  in  fitful  currents, 
the  scene  was  still  as  night  and  solitude  could 
make  it.  In  vain  were  the  eyes  of  each  individual  bent  along  the  opposite  shore, 
in  quest  of  some  signs  of  life  that  might  explain  the  nature  of  the  interruption 
they  had  heard.  Their  anxious  and  eager  looks  were  baffled  by  the  deceptive  light, 
or  rested  only  on  naked  rocks,  and  straight  and  immovable  trees. 

"  Here  is  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  gloom  and  quiet  of  a  lovely  evening," 
whispered  Duncan  ;  "  how  much  should  we  prize  such  a  scene,  and  all  this  breath- 
ing solitude,  at  any  other  moment,  Cora !  Fancy  yourselves  in  security,  and  what 
now,  perhaps,  increases  your  terror,  may  be  made  conducive  to  enjoyment  " 


READY    FOR    WAR. 


AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE    IROQUOIS.  259 

"  Listen  !  "  interrupted  Alice. 

The  caution  was  unnecessary.  Once  more  the  same  sound  arose,  as  if  from  the 
bed  of  the  river,  and  having  broken  out  of  the  narrow  bounds  of  the  cliffs,  was 
heard  undulating  through  the  forest,  in  distant  and  dying  cadences. 

"  Can  any  here  give  a  name  to  such  a  cry  ?  "  demanded  Hawk-eye,  when  the 
last  echo  was  lost  in  the  woods  ;  "if  so,  let  him  speak  ;  for  myself,  I  judge  it  not 
to  belong  to  'arth  !  " 

"  Here,  then,  is  one  who  can  undeceive  you,"  said  Duncan  ;  "  I  know  the  sound 
full  well,  for  often  have  I  heard  it  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  in  situations  which  are 
frequent  in  a  soldier's  life.  "Pis  the  horrid  shriek  that  a  horse  will  give  in  his 
agony ;  oftener  drawn  from  him  in  pain,  though  sometimes  in  terror.  My  charger 
is  either  a  prey  to  the  beasts  of  the  forest,  or  he  sees  his  danger  without  the  power 
to  avoid  it.  The  sound  might  deceive  me  in  the  cavern,  but  in  the  open  air,  I 
know  it  too  well  to  be  wrong." 

The  scout  and  his  companions  listened  to  this  simple  explanation  with  the  in- 
terest of  men  who  imbibe  new  ideas,  at  the  same  time  that  they  get  rid  of  old  ones 
which  had  proved  disagreeable  inmates. 

The  two  latter  uttered  their  usual  and  expressive  exclamation,  "  hugh  !  "  as  the 
truth  first  glanced  upon  their  minds  ;  while  the  former,  after  a  short  musing  pause, 
took  upon  himself  to  reply. 

"  I  cannot  deny  your  words,"  he  said,  "  for  I  am  little  skilled  in  horses,  though 
born  where  they  abound.  The  wolves  must  be  hovering  above  their  heads  on  the 
bank,  and  the  timorsome  creatures  are  calling  on  man  for  help,  in  the  best  manner 
they  are  able.  Uncas  " — he  spoke  in  Delaware  —  "  Uncas,  drop  down  in  the 
canoe,  and  whirl  a  brand  among  the  pack  ;  or  fear  may  do  what  the  wolves  can't 
get  at  to  perform,  and  leave  us  without  horses  in  the  morning,  when  we  shall  have 
so  much  need  to  journey  swiftly !  " 

The  young  native  had  already  descended  to  the  water,  to  comply,  when  a  long 
howl  was  raised  on  the  edge  of  the  river,  and  was  borne  swiftly  off  into  the  depths 
of  the  forest,  as  though  the  beasts,  of  their  own  accord,  were  abandoning  their 
prey  in  sudden  terror.  Uncas,  with  instinctive  quickness,  receded,  and  the  three 
foresters  held  another  of  their  low,  earnest  conferences. 

"  We  have  been  like  hunters  who  have  lost  the  points  of  the  heavens,  and  from 
whom  the  sun  has  been  hid  for  days,"  said  Hawk-eye,  turning  away  from  his  com- 
panions ;  "  now  we  begin  again  to  know  the  signs  of  our  course,  and  the  paths  are 
cleared  from  briers !  Seat  yourselves  in  the  shade  which  the  moon  throws  from 
yonder  beech  —  'tis  thicker  than  that  of  the  pines  —  and  let  us  wait  for  that  which 
the  Lord  may  choose  to  send  next.  Let  all  your  conversation  be  in  whispers  ; 
though  it  would  be  better,  and  perhaps,  in  the  end,  wiser,  if  each  one  held  dis- 
course with  his  own  thoughts  for  a  time." 

The  manner  of  the  scout  was  seriously  impressive,  though  no  longer  distin- 
guished by  any  signs  of  unmanly  apprehension.  It  was  evident  that  his  momentary 
weakness  had  vanished  with  the  explanation  of  a  mystery  which  his  own  experience 
had  not  served  to  fathom  ;  and  though  he  now  felt  all  the  realities  of  their 


260  AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE    IRQ  QUO  IS. 

actual  condition,  that  he  was  prepared  to  meet  them  with  the  energy  of  his  hardy 
nature. 

This  feeling  seemed  also  common  to  the  natives,  who  placed  themselves  in 
positions  which  commanded  a  full  view  of  both  shores,  while  their  own  persons 
were  effectually  concealed  from  observation.  In  such  circumstances  common  pru- 
dence dictated  that  Heyward  and  his  companions  should  imitate  a  caution  that 
proceeded  from  so  intelligent  a  source.  The  young  man  drew  a  pile  of  the  sassa- 
fras from  the  cave,  and  placing  it  in  the  chasm  which  separated  the  two  caverns,  it 
was  occupied  by  the  sisters ;  who  were  thus  protected  by  the  rocks  from  any  mis- 
siles, while  their  anxiety  was  relieved  by  the  assurance  that  no  danger  could  ap- 
proach without  a  warning. 

Heyward  himself  was  posted  at  hand,  so  near  that  he  might  communicate  with 
his  companions  without  raising  his  voice  to  a  dangerous  elevation  ;  while  David,  in 
imitation  of  the  woodsmen,  bestowed  his  person  in  such  a  manner  among  the 
fissures  of  the  rocks,  that  his  ungainly  limbs  were  no  longer  offensive  to  the  eye. 
In  this  manner  hours  passed  by,  without  further  interruption.  The  moon  reached 
the  zenith,  and  shed  its  mild  light  perpendicularly  on  the  lovely  sight  of  the  sisters 
slumbering  peacefully  in  each  other's  arms. 

Duncan  cast  the  wide  shawl  of  Cora  before  a  spectacle  he  so  much  loved  to 
contemplate,  and  then  suffered  his  own  head  to  seek  a  pillow  on  the  rock.  David 
began  to  utter  sounds  that  would  have  shocked  his  delicate  organs  in  more  wake- 
ful moments  ;  in  short, 'all  but  Hawk-eye  and  the  Mohicans  lost  every  idea  of  con- 
sciousness, in  uncontrollable  drowsiness.  But  the  watchfulness  of  these  vigilant 
protectors  neither  tired  nor  slumbered.  Immovable  as  that  rock  of  which  each 
appeared  to  form  a  part,  they  lay,  with  their  eyes  roving,  without  intermission, 
along  the  dark  margin  of  trees  that  bounded  the  adjacent  shores  of  the  narrow 
stream.  Not  a  sound  escaped  them  ;  the  most  subtle  examination  could  not  have 
told  they  breathed.  It  was  evident  that  this  excess  of  caution  proceeded  from 
an  experience  that  no  subtlety  on  the  part  of  their  enemies  could  deceive.  It  was, 
however,  continued  without  any  apparent  consequences,  until  the  moon  had  set, 
and  a  pale  streak  above  the  tree-tops,  at  the  bend  of  the  river  a  little  below,  an- 
nounced the  approach  of  day. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Hawk-eye  was  seen  to  stir.  He  crawled  along  the 
rock,  and  shook  Duncan  from  his  heavy  slumbers.  "  Now  is  the  time  to  journey," 
he  whispered  ;  "  awake  the  gentle  ones,  and  be  ready  to  get  into  the  canoe  when 
I  bring  it  to  the  landing-place." 

"  Have  you  had  a  quiet  night?"  said  Heyward;  "  for  myself,  I  believe  sleep 
has  got  the  better  of  my  vigilance." 

"  All  is  yet  still  as  midnight.     Be  silent,  but  be  quick." 

By  this  time  Duncan  was  thoroughly  awake,  and  he  immediately  lifted  the 
shawl  from  the  sleeping  females.  The  motion  caused  Cora  to  raise  her  hand  as  if 
to  repulse  him,  while  Alice  murmured,  in  her  soft,  gentle  voice,  "  No,  no,  dear 
father,  we  were  not  deserted  ;  Duncan  was  with  us  !  " 

"  Yes,  sweet  innocence,"  whispered  the  youth  ;  "  Duncan  is  here,  and  while 


AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE     IROQUOIS.  261 

life  continues  or  danger  remains,  he  will  never  quit  thee.  Cora  !  Alice  !  awake  ! 
The  hour  has  come  to  move !  " 

A  loud  shriek  from  the  younger  of  the  sisters,  and  the  form  of  the  other  stand- 
ing upright  before  him,  in  bewildered  horror,  was  the  unexpected  answer  he  re- 
ceived. While  the  words  were  still  on  the  lips  of  Heyward,  there  had  arisen  such 
a  tumult  of  yells  and  cries  as  served  to  drive  the  swift  currents  of  his  own  blood 
back  fr,pm  its  bounding  course  into  the  fountains  of  his  heart.  It  seemed,  for  near 
a  minute,  as  if  the  demons  of  hell  had  possessed  themselves  of  the  air  about  them, 
aud  were  venting  their  savage  humors  in  barbarous  sounds.  The  cries  came  from 
no  particular  direction,  though  it  was  evident  they  filled  the  woods,  and  as  the  ap- 
palled listeners  easily  imagined,  the  caverns  of  the  falls,  the  rocks,  the  bed  of  the 
river,  and  the  upper  air.  David  raised  his  tall  person  in  the  midst  of  the  infernal 
din,  with  a  hand  on  either  ear,  exclaiming  —  "  Whence  comes  this  discord  ?  Has 
hell  broke  loose,  that  man  should  utter  sounds  like  these  ? " 

The  bright  flashes  and  the  quick  reports  of  a  dozen  rifles,  from  the  opposite 
banks  of  the  stream,  followed  this  incautious  exposure  of  his  person,  and  left  the 
unfortunate  singing-master  senseless  on  that  rock  where  he  had  been  so  long  slum- 
bering. The  Mohicans  boldly  sent  back  the  intimidating  yell  of  their  enemies, 
who  raised  a  shout  of  savage  triumph  at  the  fall  of  Gamut.  The  flash  of  rifles  was 
then  quick  and  close  between  them,  but  either  party  was  too  well  skilled  to  leave 
even  a  limb  exposed  to  hostile  aim. 

Duncan  listened  with  intense  anxiety  for  the  strokes  of  the  paddle,  believing 
that  flight  was  now  their  only  refuge.  The  river  glanced  by  with  its  ordinary 
velocity,  but  the  canoe  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  on  its  dark  waters.  He  had  just 
fancied  they  were  cruelly  deserted  by  the  scout,  as  a  stream  of  flame  issued  from 
the  rock  beneath  him,  and  a  fierce  yell,  blended  with  a  shriek  of  agony,  announced 
that  the  messenger  of  death,  sent  from  the  fatal  weapon  of  Hawk-eye,  had  found  a 
victim.  At  this  slight  repulse  the  assailants  instantly  withdrew,  and  gradually  the 
place  became  as  still  as  before  the  sudden  tumult. 

Duncan  seized  the  favorable  moment  to  spring  to  the  body  of  Gamut,  which  he 
bore  within  the  shelter  of  the  narrow  chasm  that  protected  the  sisters.  In  another 
minute  the  whole  party  was  collected  in  this  spot  of  comparative  safety. 

"  The  poor  fellow  has  saved  his  scalp,"  said  Hawk-eye,  coolly  passing  his  hand 
over  the  head  of  David  ;  "  but  he  is  a  proof  that  a  man  may  be  born  with  too  long 
a  tongue  !  'Twas  downright  madness  to  show  six  feet  of  flesh  and  blood,  on  a 
naked  rock,  to  the  raging  savages.  I  only  wonder  he  has  escaped  with  life." 

"  Is  he  not  dead  ?  "  demanded  Cora,  in  a  voice  whose  husky  tones  showed  how 
powerfully  natural  horror  struggled  with  her  assumed  firmness.  "  Can  we  do 
aught  to  assist  the  wretched  man  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  the  life  is  in  his  heart  yet,  and  after  he  has  slept  awhile  he  will  come 
to  himself,  and  be  a  wiser  man  for  it,  till  the  hour  of  his  real  time  shall  come,"  re- 
turned Hawk-eye,  casting  another  oblique  glance  at  the  insensible  body,  while  he 
filled  his  charges  with  admirable  nicety.  "  Carry  him  in,  Uncas,  and  lay  him  on 
the  sassafras.  The  longer  his  nap  lasts  the  better  it  will  be  for  him,  as  I  doubt 


262  AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE    IROQUOIS. 

whether  he  can  find  a  proper  cover  for  such  a  shape  on  these  rocks  ;  and  singing 
won't  do  any  good  with  the  Iroquois." 

"  You  believe,  then,  the  attack  will  be  renewed  ?  "  asked  Heyward. 

"  Do  I  expect  a  hungry  wolf  will  satisfy  his  craving  with  a  mouthful  !  They 
have  lost  a  man,  and  'tis  their  fashion,  when  they  meet  a  loss,  and  fail  in  the  sur- 
prise, to  fall  back ;  but  we  shall  have  them  on  again,  with  new  expedients  to  cir- 
cumvent us,  and  master  our  scalps.  Our  main  hope,"  he  continued,  raising  his 
rugged  countenance,  across  which  a  shade  of  anxiety  just  then  passed  like  a  dark- 
ening cloud,  "  will  be  to  keep  the  rock  until  Munro  can  send  a  party  to  our  help ! 
God  send  it  may  be  soon,  and  under  a  leader  that  knows  the  Indian  customs  !" 

"  You  hear  our  probable  fortunes,  Cora,"  said  Duncan  ;  "  and  you  know  we 
have  everything  to  hope  from  the  anxiety  and  experience  of  your  father.  Come, 
then,  with  Alice,  into  this  cavern,  where  you,  at  least,  will  be  safe  from  the  mur- 
derous rifles  of  our  enemies,  and  where  you  may  bestow  a  care  suited  to  your  gen- 
tle natures  on  our  unfortunate  comrade." 

The  sisters  followed  him  into  the  outer  cave,  where  David  was  beginning,  by  his 
sighs,  to  give  symptoms  of  returning  consciousness  ;  and  then  commending  the 
wounded  man  to  their  attention,  he  immediately  prepared  to  leave  them. 

"  Duncan  !"  said  the  tremulous  voice  of  Cora,  when  he  had  reached  the  mouth 
of  the  cavern.  He  turned,  and  beheld  the  speaker,  whose  color  had  changed  to  a 
deadly  paleness,  and  whose  lip  quivered,  gazing  after  him,  with  an  expression  of 
interest  which  immediately  recalled  him  to  her  side.  "  Remember,  Duncan,  how 
necessary  your  safety  is  to  our  own  —  how  you  bear  a  father's  sacred  trust  —  how 
much  depends  on  your  discretion  and  care  —  in  short,"  she  added,  while  the  tell- 
tale blood  stole  over  her  features,  crimsoning  her  very  temples,  "  how  very 
deservedly  dear  you  are  to  all  of  the  name  of  Munro." 

"  If  anything  could  add  to  my  own  base  love  of  life,"  said  Heyward,  suffering 
his  unconscious  eyes  to  wander  to  the  youthful  form  of  the  silent  Alice,  "  it  would 
be  so  kind  an  assurance.  As  major  of  the  6oth,  our  honest  host  will  tell  you  I 
must  take  my  share  of  the  fray;  but  our  task  will  be  easy;  it  is  merely  to  keep 
these  blood-hounds  at  bay  for  a  few  hours." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  tore  himself  from  the  presence  of  the  sisters, 
and  joined  the  scout  and  his  companions,  who  still  lay  within  the  protection  of  the 
little  chasm  between  the  two  caves. 

"  I  tell  you,  Uncas,"  said  the  former,  as  Heyward  joined  them,  "you  are  waste- 
ful of  your  powder,  and  the  kick  of  the  rifle  disconcerts  your  aim  !  Little  powder, 
light  lead,  and  a  long  arm,  seldom  fail  of  bringing  the  death  screech  from  a  Mingo  ! 
At  least,  such  has  been  my  experience  with  the  creature.  Come,  friends  ;  let  us 
to  our  covers,  for  no  man  can  tell  when  or  where  a  Maqua  will  strike  his  blow." 

The  Indians  silently  repaired  to  their  appointed  stations,  which  were  fissures 
in  the  rocks,  whence  they  could  command  the  approaches  to  the  foot  of  the  falls. 
In  the  center  of  the  little  island,  a  few  short  and  stunted  pines  had  found  root, 
forming  a  thicket,  into  which  Hawk-eye  darted  with  the  swiftness  of  a  deer,  fol- 
lowed by  the  active  Duncan.  Here  they  secured  themselves,  as  well  as  circum- 


AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE    IRQ  QUO  IS.  263 

stances  would  permit,  among  the  shrubs  and  fragments  of  stone  that  were  scattered 
about  the  place.  Above  them  was  a  bare,  rounded  rock,  on  each  side  of  which 
the  water  played  its  gambols,  and  plunged  into  the  abysses  beneath,  in  the  man- 
ner already  described.  As  the  day  had  now  dawned,  the  opposite  shores  no  longer 
presented  a  confused  outline,  but  they  were  able  to  look  into  the  woods,  and  dis- 
tinguish objects  beneath  the  canopy  of  gloomy  pines. 

A  long  and  anxious  watch  succeeded,  but  without  any  further  evidences  of  a 
renewed  attack ;  and  Duncan  began  to  hope  that  their  fire  had  proved  more  fatal 
than  was  supposed,  and  that  their  enemies  had  been  effectually  repulsed.  When 
he  ventured  to  utter  this  impression  to  his  companion,  he  was  met  by  Hawk-eye 
with  an  incredulous  shake  of  the  head. 

"  You  know  not  the  nature  of  a  Maqua,  if  you  think  he  is  so  easily  beaten  back 
without  a  scalp  !  "  he  answered.  "  If  there  was  one  of  the  imps  yelling  this  morn- 
ing, there  were  forty  !  and  they  know  our  number  and  quality  too  well  to  give  up 
the  chase  so  soon.  Hist  !  look  into  the  water  above,  just  where  it  breaks  over 
the  rocks.  I  am  no  mortal,  if  the  risky  devils  haven't  swam  down  upon  the  very 
pitch,  and,  as  bad  luck  would  have  it,  they  have  hit  the  head  of  the  island.  Hist  ! 
man,  keep  close  !  or  the  hair  will  be  off  your  crown  in  the  turning  of  a  knife  ! " 

Heyward  lifted  his  head  from  the  cover,  and  beheld  what  he  justly  considered 
a  prodigy  of  rashness  and  skill.  The  river  had  worn  away  the  edge  of  the  soft 
rock  in  such  a  manner  as  to  render  its  first  pitch  less  abrupt  and  perpendicular 
than  is  usual  at  waterfalls.  With  no  other  guide  than  the  ripple  of  the  stream 
where  it  met  the  head  of  the  island,  a  party  of  their  insatiable  foes  had  ventured 
into  the  current,  and  swam  down  upon  this  point,  knowing  the  ready  access  it  would 
give,  if  successful,  to  their  intended  victims.  As  Hawk-eye  ceased  speaking,  four 
human  heads  could  be  seen  peering  above  a  few  logs  of  drift  wood  that  had  lodged 
on  these  naked  rocks,  and  which  had  probably  suggested  the  idea  of  the  practica- 
bility of  the  hazardous  undertaking. 

At  the  next  moment,  a  fifth  form  was  seen  floating  over  the  green  edge  of  the 
fall,  a  little  from  the  line  of  the  island.  The  savage  struggled  powerfully  to  gain 
the  point  of  safety,  and,  favored  by  the  glancing  water,  he  was  already  stretching 
forth  an  arm  to  meet  the  grasp  of  his  companions,  when  he  shot  away  again  with 
the  whirling  current,  appeared  to  rise  into  the  air,  with  uplifted  arms,  and  start- 
ing eyeballs,  and  fell  with  a  sudden  plunge  into  that  deep  and  yawning  abyss  over 
which  he  hovered.  A  single,  wild,  despairing  shriek  rose  from  the  cavern,  and  all 
was  hushed  again,  as  the  grave. 

The  first  generous  impulse  of  Duncan  was  to  rush  to  the  rescue  of  the  hapless 
wretch  ;  but  he  felt  himself  bound  to  the  spot  by  the  iron  grasp  of  the  immov- 
able scout. 

"  Would  ye  bring  certain  death  upon  us,  by  telling  the  Mingoes  where  we  lie  ? " 
demanded  Hawk-eye,  sternly;  "'tis  a  charge  of  powder  saved, — and  ammunition 
is  as  precious  now  as  breath  to  a  worried  deer !  Freshen  the  priming  of  your 
pistols  —  the  mist  of  the  falls  is  apt  to  dampen  the  brimstone  —  and  stand  firm  for 
a  close  struggle,  while  I  fire  on  their  rush." 


264  AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE    IROQUOIS. 

He  placed  a  finger  in  his  mouth,  and  drew  a  long,  shrill  whistle,  which  was  an- 
swered from  the  rocks  that  were  guarded,  by  the  Mohicans.  Duncan  caught 
glimpses  of  heads  above  the  scattered  drift  wood,  as  this  signal  rose  on  the  air,  but 
they  disappeared  again  as  suddenly  as  they  had  glanced  upon  his  sight.  A  low, 
rustling  sound  next  drew  his  attention  behind  him,  and  turning -his  head,  he  beheld 
Uncas  within  a  few  feet,  creeping  to  his  side.  Hawk-eye  spoke  to  him  in  Delaware, 
when  the  young  chief  took  his  position  with  singular  caution  and  undisturbed  cool- 
ness. To  Hey  ward,  this  was  a  moment  of  feverish  and  impatient  suspense; 
though  the  scout  saw  fit  to  select  it  as  a  fit  occasion  to  read  a  lecture  to  his  more 
youthful  associates  on  the  art  of  using  fire-arms  with  discretion. 

"  Of  all  we'pons,"  he  commenced,  "  the  long-barrelled,  true-grooved,  soft-met- 
alled rifle  is  the  most  dangerous  in  skilful  hands,  though  it  wants  a  strong  arm,  a 
quick  eye,  and  great  judgment  in  charging,  to  put  forth  all  its  beauties.  The  gun- 
smiths can  have  but  little  insight  into  their  trade,  when  they  make  their  fowling- 
pieces  and  short  horse-men's"  — 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  low  but  expressive  "  hugh  "  of  Uncas. 

"  I  see  them,  boy,  I  see  them  !  "  continued  Hawk-eye  ;  "  they  are  gathering  for 
the  rush,  or  they  would  keep  their  dingy  backs  below  the  logs.  Well,  let  them," 
he  added,  examining  his  flint  ;  "the  leading  man  certainly  comes  on  to  his  death, 
though  it  should  be  Montcalm  himself  !  " 

At  that  moment  the  woods  were  filled  with  another  burst  of  cries,  and  at  the 
signal  four  savages  sprang  from  the  cover  of  the  drift  wood.  Heyward  felt  a  burn- 
ing desire  to  rush  forward  to  meet  them,  so  intense  was  the  delirious  anxiety  of 
the  moment ;  but  he  was  restrained  by  the  deliberate  examples  of  the  scout  and 
Uncas.  When  their  foes,  who  leaped  over  the  black  rocks  that  divided  them,  with 
long  bounds,  uttering  the  wildest  yells,  were  within  a  few  rods,  the  rifle  of  Hawk- 
eye  slowly  rose  among  the  shrubs,  and  poured  out  its  fatal  contents.  The  fore- 
most Indian  bounded  like  a  stricken  deer,  and  fell  headlong  among  the  clefts  of 
the  island. 

"  Now,  Uncas,"  cried  the  scout,  drawing  his  long  knife,  while  his  quick  eyes 
began  to  flash  with  ardor,  "take  the  last  of  the  screeching  imps  ;  of  the  other  two 
we  are  sartin  !  " 

He  was  obeyed  ;  and  but  two  enemies  remained  to  be  overcome.  Heyward  had 
given  one  of  his  pistols  to  Hawk-eye,  and  together  they  rushed  down  a  little  de- 
clivity towards  their  foes  ;  they  discharged  their  weapons  at  the  same  instant,  and 
equally  without  success. 

"  I  know'd  it  !  and  I  said  it !  "  muttered  the  scout,  whirling  the  despised  little 
implement  over  the  falls  with  bitter  disdain.  "  Come  on,  ye  bloody-minded  hell- 
hounds! ye  meet  a  man  without  a  cross  !  " 

The  words  were  barely  uttered,  when  he  encountered  a  savage  of  gigantic 
stature,  and  of  the  fiercest  mien.  At  the  same  moment,  Duncan  found  himself  en- 
gaged with  the  other,  in  a  similar  contest  of  hand  to  hand.  With  ready  skill, 
Hawk-eye  and  his  antagonist  each  grasped  that  uplifted  arm  of  the  other  which 
held  the  dangerous  knife.  For  near  a  minute  they  stood  looking  one  another  in 


AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    THE    IROQUOIS. 


265 


the  eye,  and  gradually  exerting  the  power  of  their  muscles  for  the  mastery.  At 
length  the  toughened  sinews  of  the  white  man  prevailed  over  the  less  practised 
limbs  of  the  native.  The  arm  of  the  latter  slowly  gave  way  before  the  increasing 
force  of  the  scout  who,  suddenly  wresting  his  armed  hand  from  the  grasp  of  his 
foe,  drove  the  sharp  weapon  through  his  naked  bosom  to  the  heart.  In  the  mean- 
time, Heyward  had  been  pressed  in  a  more  deadly  struggle.  His  slight  sword  was 
snapped  in  the  first  encounter.  As  he  was  destitute  of  any  other  means  of  de- 
fense, his  safety  now  depended  entirely  on  bodily  strength  and  resolution. 

Though  deficient  in  neither  of  these  qualities,  he  had  met  an  enemy  every  way 
his  equal.  Happily  he  soon  succeeded  in  disarming  his  adversary,  whose  knife  fell 
on  the  rock  at  their  feet ;  and  from  this  moment  it  became  a  fierce  struggle  who 
should  cast  the  other  over  the  dizzy  height  into  a  neighboring  cavern  of  the  falls. 
Every  successive  struggle  brought  them  nearer  to  the  verge,  where  Duncan  per- 
ceived the  final  and  conquering  effort  must  be  made.  Each  of  the  combatants 
threw  all  his  energies  into  that  effort,  and  the  result  was,  that  both  tottered  on  the 
brink  of  the  precipice.  Heyward  felt  the  grasp  of  the  other  at  his  throat,  and  saw 
the  grim  smile  the  savage  gave,  under  the  revengeful  hope  that  he  hurried  his 
enemy  to  a  fate  similar  to  his  own,  as  he  felt  his  body  slowly  yielding  to  a  resist- 
less power,  and  the  young  man  experienced  the  passing  agony  of  such  a  moment 
in  all  its  horrors.  At  that  instant  of  extreme  danger,  a  dark  hand  and  glancing 
knife  appeared  before  him  ;  the  Indian  released  his  hold,  as  the  blood  flowed  freely 
from  around  the  severed  tendons  of  his  wrist  ;  and  while  Duncan  was  drawn  back- 
ward by  the  saving  arm  of  Uncas,  his  charmed  eyes  were  still  riveted  on  the  fierce 
and  disappointed  countenance  of  his  foe,  who  fell  sullenly  and  disappointed  down 
the  irrecoverable  precipice. 

"To  cover!  to  cover!"  cried  Hawk-eye,  who  just  then  had  dispatched  his 
enemy  ;  "  to  cover,  for  your  lives  !  the  work  is  but  half  ended  !  " 

The  young  Mohican  gave  a  shout  of  triumph,  and,  followed  by  Duncan,  he 
glided  up  the  acclivity  they  had  descended  to  the  combat,  and  sought  the  friendly 
shelter  of  the  rocks  and  shrubs. 

JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER. 


266  UNSELFISHNESS  — PHILIP    AND    LEIGH. 


UNSELFISHNESS. 

I  FOUND  the  Battery  unoccupied,  save  by  children,  whom  the  weather  made  as 
merry  as  birds.  Every  thing  seemed  moving  to  the  vernal  tune  of 

"  Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green."  —  Scott's  Rokeby. 

To  one  who  was  chasing  her  hoop,  I  said,  smiling,  "  You  are  a  nice  little  girl." 
She  stopped,  looked  up  in  my  face,  so  rosy  and  happy,  and,  laying  her  hand  on  her 
brother's  shoulder,  exclaimed,  earnestly,  "  And  he  is  a  nice  little  boy,  too  !  "  It 
was  a  simple,  childish  act,  but  it  brought  a  warm  gush  into  my  heart.  Blessings 
on  all  unselfishness  !  on  all  that  leads  us  in  love  to  prefer  one  another !  Here  lies 
the  secret  of  universal  harmony  ;  this  is  the  diapason  which  would  bring  us  all  into 
tune.  Only  by  losing  ourselves  can  we  find  ourselves.  How  clearly  does  the  di- 
vine voice  within  us  proclaim  this,  by  the  hymn  of  joy  it  sings,  whenever  we  wit- 
ness an  unselfish  deed  or  hear  an  unselfish  thought.  Blessings  on  that  loving  little 
one  !  She  made  the  city  seem  a  garden  to  me.  I  kissed  my  hand  to  her,  as  I 
turned  off  in  quest  of  the  Brooklyn  ferry.  The  sparkling  waters  swarmed  with 
boats,  some  of  which  had  taken  a  big  ship  by  the  hand,  and  were  leading  her  out  to 
sea,  as  the  prattle  of  childhood  often  guides  wisdom  into  the  deepest  and  broadest 
thought. 

LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD. 


PHILIP     AND     LEIGH. 

PHILIP  had  spoken  again. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  you  can/'  he  had  said.  "  My  life  is  in  your 
hands." 

Leigh's  heart  beat  fast ;  and  she  nervously  pulled  in  pieces  a  honeysuckle 
blossom,  sacrificing  the  fragrant,  unoffending  flower  in  her  troubled  mood. 

"Mr.  Ogden,  may  I  speak  very  frankly  to  you?  I  think  there  should  be  no 
disguise  between  us,  whatever  may  come,  and  I  know  you  will  not  misunderstand 
me  ;  and  you  will  pardon  me  if  what  I  am  about  to  say  seems  strange  ?  " 

"  Do  not  hesitate  to  say  anything  you  wish.     I  cannot  misunderstand." 

"  In  all  these  days  in  which  you  have  been  so  good,  and  have  given  me  time  to 
think,  it  seems  to  me  I  ought  to  feel  sure  of  myself,  and  I  am  not,  Mr.  Ogden.  I 
am  so  sorry,  but  I  feel  troubled,  full  of  doubt." 

"  Why  should  you  not  feel  so  ?  It  is  no  light  thing  I  ask  of  you,"  Philip  said 
gently.  Then,  after  a  moment,  "  Could  you  tell  me  what  especially  makes  you 
troubled  ?  " 


PHILIP    AND    LEIGH. 


267 


"  I  would  like  to  tell  you  if  I  can.  I  wish  to  show  you  what  is  in  my  heart.  It 
seems  to  me  the  only  way,"  she  hesitated.  Again  the  innocent  honeysuckle  vine 
suffered,  as  Leigh's  unconscious  hands  ruthlessly  showered  leaf  and  flower  upon 
the  steps.  Abruptly  she  began.  "  Mr.  Ogden,  it  is  so  different  from  my  theories. 
All  girls  have  theories,  you  know.  I  cannot  deny  that  I  care  more  for  you  than  I 
ever  cared  for  any  one  before,"  she  said  slowly,  and  so  low,  that  Philip  scarcely 
heard  the  words  that  were  so  dear  to  him.  "  Wait,"  she  went  on,  with  a  little  im- 
perious gesture,  as  Philip  eagerly  began  to  speak,  — "  wait.  I  care  for  you 
more,  but  how  can  I  be  sure  that  I  care  for  you  enough  ?  How  can  I  ?  "  And  the 
earnestness  of  her  voice  deepened  as  she  asked  the  question,  and  looked  straight 
into  the  eyes  of  the  man  that  loved  her.  "You  have  been  good  to  me.  You  have 


THE    HONEYSUCKLF.    GREW    ALL    ABOUT. 


cared  for  me  constantly  in  little  kind  ways.  Mrs.  Browning  says,  'These  things 
have  their  weight  with  girls,'  "  and  a  faint  smile  trembled  about  Leigh's  lips.  "  I 
suppose  she  knew.  You  have  been  with  me  weeks  and  weeks.  I  have  grown  used 
to  you,  and  now  you  tell  me  that  you  love  me  ;  and  in  return  I  give  much  regard,  a 
grateful  affection  perhaps,  but  is  it  love  ?  It  is  not  like  the  love  that  I  have  dreamed 
of  !  "  she  exclaimed  passionately. 

Philip  wondered  if  there  were  another  woman  in  the  world  so  true  as  the  one 
who  stood  before  him,  trying  to  let  him  read  her  very  heart  as  if  it  were  an  open 
book,  and  whose  face  and  attitude  and  voice  by  sudden,  eloquent  little  changes  each 
moment  seemed  to  reveal  every  phase  of  the  feeling  which  stirred  her  so  deeply. 

He  did  not  speak,  for  he  saw  that  she  had  more  to  say  to  him. 


268  PHILIP     AND    LEIGH. 

"Let  me  speak  more  plainly."  And  she  carefully  chose  her  words,  and 
endeavored  to  be  quite  calm.  "  Your  presence  makes  me  very  happy.  I  think  I 
would  like  you  to  come  very  often  to  my  sister's  home,  yet  I  do  not  feel  that  for 
you  I  would,  if  you  asked  me  to-day,  give  up  that  home,  and  all  the  pleasant  things 
in  my  old  life,"  Leigh  went  on  bravely,  though  she  was  evidently  making  a  mighty 
effort.  "  I  have  always  believed  no  woman  ought  to  marry  a  man  if  she  feels  she 
can  under  any  circumstances  be  happy  without  him.  Am  I  talking  strangely  ? 
Forgive  me.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me.  I  do  care  very  much  for  you,  and  should 
miss  you  if  you  did  not  come  to  my  home  ;  and  I  should  think  of  you  often  at  first, 
but  after  a  time  I  think  I  might  be  quite  happy  without  you."  Then,  with  a  trem- 
ulous voice,  suggestive  of  the  deepest  emotion,  and  also  of  a  nervous  desire  to 
laugh,  she  said,  "  A  woman,  if  she  really  loves  a  man,  ought  to  be  willing  to  go  and 
live  in  a  log-cabin  with  him  out  on  the  prairies  ;  and  I  do  not  love  you  enough  for 
that.  I  know  I  do  not.  Do  not  think  me  speaking  lightly,"  she  said  pleadingly. 
"  It  is  so  hard  to  tell  you  exactly  what  I  mean,  and  I  am  so_sad  at  heart.  But  when 
you  offer  me  so  royal  a  gift  as  your  love,  when  you  place  all  that  you  have,  and  all 
that  you  are,  at  my  feet,  I  must  at  least  give  you  absolute  truth  in  return.  You 
see  how  I  trust  you.  I  am  trying  to  tell  you  every  thought." 

"  I  know  that  you  trust  me,"  Philip  said,  taking  in  his  own  her  two  trembling 
hands  and  holding  them  firmly,  "  and  I  believe  that  I  can  teach  you  to  love  me. 
Leigh,  you  must  love  me  a  little,  or  you  could  not  let  me  hold  these  dear  hands  in 
mine,  nor  touch  them  with  my  lips.  See,  I  kiss  them  over  and  over,  and  you  do 
not  draw  them  away.  Already  you  give  me  far  more  than  I  deserve,  and  for  the  rest 
I  can  wait  very,  very  patiently." 

Leigh  was  touched  indescribably  by  the  quiet  tenderness  of  his  manner. 

"But,"  she  said,  "is  this  right  ?  What  if  the  day  comes  when  I  look  you  in 
the  face  and  say  I  do  not  love  you  ?  What  would  you  think  of  me  then  ?  " 

"I  should  think  what  I  think  now,  —  that  your  true  heart  had  revealed  itself  to 
me  in  all  honor." 

"  But  I  ought  to  know  ;  it  is  weak  to  hesitate.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  I 
may  be  deceiving  you." 

"  You  cannot  deceive  me.  Let  your  heart  be  quite  at  rest.  Do  not  question 
yourself  and  be  troubled  any  longer,  for  whatever  comes,  you  will  not  have  deceived 
me  for  a  moment.  But,  dear,  I  think  you  will  love  me.  Do  you  forgive  me  for 
feeling  so  sure  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Ogden,  will  I  seem  foolish  if  I  ask  you  how  do  I  know  but  some  day  I 
may  experience  a  stronger,  deeper  love  than  that  which  I  feel  for  you  ?  I  have  not 
seen  everybody." 

Philip  smiled  at  her  unconscious  admission  and  at  the  utter  simplicity  of  her 
manner. 

"  Dear,  you  will  honor  me  above  all  the  world,  if  you  will  give  me  the  happiness 
of  assuming  that  risk."  Then  he  said  more  gravely,  "I  know  well  that  I  am  no 
hero.  You  will  meet  many  a  person  more  like  the  ideal  man  you  may  have  dreamed 
of  loving  ;  but  I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul,  Leigh." 


TO    MISS    MITfORD.  269 

"  When  you  speak  so,  you  place  me  in  a  different  atmosphere.  It  is  as  if  I  were 
quite  promised  to  you,"  Leigh  said  in  a  pained,  low  voice.  "  I  have  always  been  so 
decided  in  everything,  and  I  have  felt  so  distressed  in  the  last  few  clays  because  of 
my  doubts.  Love,  real  love,  never  hesitates  so.  Are  you  sure  that  you  understand  ? 
I  cannot  feel  that  I  wish  to  lose  you  utterly  ;  yet,  Mr.  Ogden,  you  are  very  far  from 
being  all  the  world  to  me.  Do  you  think  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Everything,  everything,  and  what  you  tell  me  makes  me  profoundly  happy, 
and  I  love  you  a  thousand  times  more  for  every  noble  word  you  have  said  to-night. 
I  have  unspeakable  faith  in  your  perfect  truth  toward  me.  Whatever  you  do  will 
be 'sweet  and  right." 

"  I  shall  feel  differently  now.      You  are  so  good  it  rests  me." 

"  You  have  given  me  such  happiness,  such  blessed  hope  ! " 

"  Ah,  but  please  do  not  be  happy  quite  yet  !     I  do  not  know." 

"  I  know,"  said  Philip,  under  his  breath. 

"  And  are  you  glad  to  see  me,  dear  ?  And  are  you  quite  '  sure  of  yourself  '  now  ? 
And  is  it  like  your  '  theories  '  ?  " 

"  I  was  very,  very  glad,  but  I  think  you  took  an  unfair  advantage  in  surprising 
me,  and  some  day  I  will  have  my  revenge." 

"  And  will  you  go  out  on  the  prairies  and  live  in  a  log-cabin  with  me,  if  ever  I 
ask  you  ?  Will  you,  Leigh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  never,  if  you  persist  in  remembering  all  the  idle  words  I  ever  said,  and 
wickedly  repeating  them  to  me." 

"  But  would  you,  Leigh  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  I  am  really  disappointed  in  you  already.  I  never  dreamed  you  would  de- 
velop into  a  tease  like  Tom.  Do  you  know,  I've  read  that  success  ruins  some 
natures  ?  " 

"  But  would  you  ?  " 

She  hesitated  ;  then,  "  I  will  go  to  the  very  end  of  the  world  with  you  one  day  if 
you  should  wish,"  she  said  in  low,  earnest  tones. 

BLANCHE  WILLIS  HOWARD. 


TO     MISS     MITFORD. 

How  do  you  find  yourself  ?  I  heard  you  were  poorly.  What  are  you  about  ? 
I  was  happy  to  hear  of  -  -  's  safe  arrival  again,  and  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  see 
him,  though  tell  him  he  will  find  no  more  "  Solomons  "  towering  up  as  a  back- 
ground to  our  conversations.  Nothing  but  genteel-sized  drawing-room  pocket-his- 
tory—  Alexander  in  a  nutshell  ;  Bucephalus  no  bigger  than  a  Shetland  pony,  and 
my  little  girl's  doll  a  giantess  to  my  Olympias. 

The  other  night  I  paid  my  butcher  ;  one  of  the  miracles  of  these  times,  you 


270 


TO    MISS    MITFORD. 


will  say.  Let  me  tell  you  I  have  all  my  life  been  seeking  for  a  butcher  whose 
respect  for  genius  predominated  over  his  love  of  gain.  I  could  not  make  out, 
before  I  dealt  with  this  man,  his  excessive  desire  that  I  should  be  his  customer ; 
his  sly  hints  as  I  passed  his  shop  that  he  had  "  a  bit  of  South  Down,  very  fine  ;  a 
sweetbread,  perfection  ;  and  a  calf's  foot  that  was  all  jelly  without  bone  !  "  The 
other  day  he  called,  and  I  had  him  sent  up  into  the  painting-room.  I  found  him 
in  great  admiration  of  "Alexander."  "  Quite  alive,  sir!"  "I  am  glad  you  think 
so,"  said  I.  "  Yes,  sir,  but,  as  I  have  said  often  to  my  sister,  you  could  not  have 
painted  that  picture,  sir,  if  you  had  not  eat  my  meat,  sir  !  "  "  Very  true,  Mr.  Sow- 
erby."  "  Ah  !  sir,  I  have  a  fancy  for  genus,  sir  !  "  "  Have  you,  Mr.  Sowerby1  ?  " 
"  Yes,  sir  ;  Mrs.  Siddons,  sir,  has  eat  my  meat,  sir  ;  never  was  such  a  woman  for 


AT    MIT. KING-TIME. 


chops,  sir!  "  —  and  he  drew  up  his  beefy,  shiny  face,  clean  shaved,  with  a  clean  blue 
cravat  under  his  chin,  a  clean  jacket,  a  clean  apron,  and  a  pair  of  hands  that  would 
pin  an  ox  to  the  earth  if  he  was  obstreperous  —  "  Ah  !  sir,  she  was  a  wonderful  cray- 
ture  ! "  "  She  was,  Mr.  Sowerby."  "  Ah  !  sir,  when  she  used  to  act  that  there 
character,  you  see  (but  Lord,  such  a  head  !  as  I  say  to  my  sister)  — that  there 
woman,  sir,  that  murders  a  king  between  'm  !  "  "  Oh  !  Lady  Macbeth."  "  Ah, 
sir,  that's  it — Lady  Macbeth  —  I  used  to  get  up  with  the  butler  behind  her  car- 
riage when  she  acted,  and,  as  I  used  to  see  her  looking  quite  wild,  and  all  the  peo- 
ple quite  frightened,  Ah,  ha!  my  lady,  says  I,  if  it  wasn't  for  my  meat,  though,  you 


IN    PRAISE     OF    POETRY.  271 

wouldn't  be  able  to  do  that !  "  "  Mr.  Sowerby,  you  seem  to  be  a  man  of  feeling. 
Will  you  take  a  glass  of  wine  ?  "  After  a  bow  or  two,  down  he  sat,  and  by  degrees 
his  heart  opened.  "  You  see,  sir,  I  have  fed  Mrs.  Siddons,  sir ;  John  Kemble,  sir ; 
Charles  Kemble,  sir  ;  Stephen  Kemble,  sir  ;  and  Madame  Catalani,  sir ;  Morland 
the  painter,  and,  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  and  you,  sir."  "  Mr.  Sowerby,  you  do  me 
honor."  "  Madame  Catalani,  sir,  was  a  wonderful  woman  for  sweetbreads  ;  but  the 
Kemble  family,  sir,  the  gentlemen,  sir,  rump-steaks  and  kidneys  in  general  was 
their  taste  ;  but  Mrs.  Siddons,  sir,  she  liked  chops,  sir,  as  much  as  you  do,  sir," 
etc.,  etc.,  I  soon  perceived  that  the  man's  ambition  was  to  feed  genius.  I  shall 
recommend  you  to  him  ;  but  is  he  not  a  capital  fellow  ?  but  a  little  acting  with  his 
remarks  would  make  you  roar  with  laughter.  Think  of  Lady  Macbeth  eating 
chops  !  Is  this  not  a  peep  behind  the  curtain  ?  .  .  . 

BENJAMIN  ROBERT  HAYDON. 


IN     PRAISE     OF     POETRY. 

Now  therein  —  (that  is  to  say,  the  power  of  at  once  teaching  and  enticing  to  do 
well) — now  therein,  of  all  sciences  —  I  speak  still  of  human  and  according  to 
human  conceit  —  is  our  poet  the  monarch.  For  he  doth  not  only  show  the  way, 
but  giveth  so  sweet  a  prospect  into  the  way,  as  will  entice  any  man  to  enter  into 
it.  Nay,  he  doth,  as  if  your  journey  should  lie  through  a  fair  vineyard,  at  the  very 
first  give  you  a  cluster  of  grapes,  that,  full  of  that  taste,  you  may  long  to  pass  fur- 
ther. He  beginneth  not  with  obscure  definitions,  which  must  blur  the  margent 
with  interpretations,  and  load  the  memory  with  doubtfulness  ;  but  he  cometh  to 
you  with  words  set  in  delightful  proportion,  either  accompanied  with,  or  prepared 
for,  the  well-enchanting  skill  of  music  ;  and  with  a  tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto 
you  with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the  chimney- 
corner;  and  pretending  no  more,  doth  intend  the  winning  of  the  mind  from  wicked- 
ness to  virtue,  even  as  the  child  is  often  brought  to  take  most  wholesome  things, 
by  hiding  them  in  such  other  as  have  a  pleasant  taste.  For  even  those  hard- 
hearted evil  men,  who  think  virtue  a  school  name,  and  know  no  other  good  but  in- 
dulgerc  genio,  and  therefore  despise  the  austere  admonitions  of  the  philosopher,  and 
feel  not  the  inward  reason  they  stand  upon,  yet  will  be  content  to  be  delighted  ; 
which  is  all  the  good-fellow  poet  seems  to  promise ;  and  so  steal  to  see  the  form  of 
goodness  — which,  seen,  they  cannot  but  love  ere  themselves  be  aware,  as  if  they 
had  taken  a  medicine  of  cherries.  By  these,  therefore,  examples  and  reasons,  I 
think  it  may  be  manifest  that  the  poet,  with  that  same  hand  of  delight,  doth  draw 
the  mind  more  effectually  than  any  other  art  doth.  And  so  a  conclusion  not  un- 
fitly ensues,  that  as  virtue  is  the  most  excellent  resting-place  for  all  worldly  learn- 


272 


IN    PRAISE     OF    POETRY. 


ing  to  make  an  end  of,  so  poetry,  being  the  most  familiar  to  teach  it,  and  most 
princely  to  move  towards  it,  in  the  most  excellent  work  is  the  most  excellent 
workman. 

Since,  then,  poetry  is  of  all  human  learning  the  most  ancient,  and  of  most 
fatherly  antiquity,  as  from  whence  other  learnings  have  taken  their  beginnings  ;  — 
Since  it  is  so  universal  that  no  learned  nation  doth  despise  it,  no  barbarous  nation 
is  without  it; — Since  both  Roman  and  Greek  gave  such  divine  names  unto  it, 
the  one  of  prophesying,  the  other  of  making;  and  that,  indeed,  that  name  of 
making  is  fit  for  it,  considering  that  whereas  all  other  arts  retain  themselves 
within  their  subject,  and  receive,  as  it  were,  their  being  from  it,  —  the  poet,  only, 
bringeth  his  own  stuff,  and  doth  not  learn  a  conceit  out  of  the  matter,  but  maketh 
matter  for  a  conceit; —  Since,  neither  his  description  nor  end  containing  any  evil, 
the  thing  described  cannot  be  evil; — Since  his  effects  be  so  good  as  to  teach  good- 
ness and  delight  the  learners  of  it  ; —  Since  therein  (namely,  in  moral  doctrine,  the 
chief  of  all  knowledge)  he  doth  not  only  far  pass  the  historian,  but,  for  instructing, 
is  well  nigh  comparable  to  the  philosopher,  and  for  moving,  leaveth  him  behind;  — 
Since  the  Holy  Scripture  (wherein  there  is  no  uncleanness)  hath  whole  parts  in  it 
poetical,  and  that  even  our  Saviour  Christ  vouchsafed  to  use  the  flowers  of  it ;  — 
Since  all  its  kinds  are  not  only  in  their  united  forms,  but  in  their  severed  dissections 
fully  commendable  ;  —  I  think —  (and  I  think  I  think  rightly)  —  the  laurel  crown 
appointed  for  triumphant  captains,  doth  worthily,  of  all  other  learnings,  honor 
the  poet's  triumph. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 


THE    FOOTPRINT    ON    THE     SHORE. 


273 


WEATHERING   A    GALE. 


THE  FOOTPRINT  ON  THE  SHORE. 

IT  happened  one  day  about  noon,  going  towards  my  boat,  I  was  exceedingly 
surprised  with  the  print  of  a  man's  naked  foot  on  the  shore,  which  was  very  plain 
to  be  seen  in  the  sand  ;  I  stood  like  one  thunder-struck,  or  as  if  I  had  seen  an  ap- 
parition :  I  listened,  I  looked  round  me,  I  could  hear  nothing,  nor  see  any  thing  ; 
I  went  up  to  a  rising  ground  to  look  farther :  I  went  up  the  shore,  and  down  the 
shore,  but  it  was  all  one,  I  could  see  no  other  impression  but  that  one  :  I  went  to 
it  again  to  see  if  there  were  any  more,  and  to  observe  if  it  might  not  be  my  fancy  ; 
but  there  was  no  room  for  that,  for  there  was  exactly  the  very  print  of  a  foot,  toes, 
heel,  and  every  part  of  a  foot.  How  it  came  thither  I  knew  not,  nor  could  in  the 
least  imagine.  But  after  innumerable  fluttering  thoughts,  like  a  man  perfectly  con- 
fused, and  out  of  myself,  I  came  home  to  my  fortification,  not  feeling,  as  we  say, 
the  ground  I  went  on,  but  terrified  to  the  last  degree,  looking  behind  me  at  every 
two  or  three  steps,  mistaking  every  bush  and  tree,  and  fancying  every  stump  at  a 
distance  to  be  a  man  ;  nor  is  it  possible  to  describe  how  many  various  shapes  an 
affrighted  imagination  represented  things  to  me  in  ;  how  many  wild  ideas  were 
formed  every  moment  in  my  fancy,  and  what  strange,  unaccountable  whimsies 
came  into  my  thoughts  by  the  way. 


274  THE    FOOTPRINT    ON    THE     SHORE. 

When  I  came  to  my  castle,  for  so  I  think  I  called  it  ever  after  this,  I  fled  into 
it  like  one  pursued  ;  whether  I  went  over  by  the  ladder,  at  first  contrived,  or  went 
in  at  the  hole  in  the  rock,  which  I  called  a  door,  I  cannot  remember  ;  for  never 
frighted  hare  fled  to  cover,  or  fox  to  earth,  with  more  terror  of  mind  than  I  to  this 
retreat. 

How  strange  a  chequer-work  of  Providence  is  the  life  of  man  !  And  by  what 
secret  differing  springs  are  the  affections  hurried  about,  as  differing  circumstances 
present  !  To-day  we  love  what  to-morrow  we  hate  ;  to-day  we  seek  what  to-mor- 
row we  shun  ;  to-day  we  desire  what  to-morrow  we  fear ;  nay,  even  tremble  at  the 
apprehensions  of.  This  was  exemplified  in  me  at  this  time  in  the  most  lively  man- 
ner imaginable  ;  for  I,  whose  only  affliction  was,  that  I  seemed  banished  from  hu- 
man society,  that  I  was  alone,  circumscribed  by  the  boundless  ocean,  cut  off  from 
mankind,  and  condemned  to  what  I  call  a  silent  life  ;  that  I  was  as  one  whom 
Heaven  thought  not  worthy  to  be  numbered  among  the  living,  or  to  appear  among 
the  rest  of  his  creatures  ;  that  to  have  seen  one  of  my  own  species  would  have 
seemed  to  me  a  raising  me  from  death  to  life,  and  the  greatest  blessing  that  Heaven 
itself,  next  to  the  supreme  blessing  of  salvation,  could  bestow  ;  I  say,  that  I  should 
now  tremble  at  the  very  apprehensions  of  seeing  a  man,  and  was  ready  to  sink  into 
the  ground,  at  but  the  shadow,  or  silent  appearance  of  a  man's  having  set  his  foot 
on  the  island  ! 

Such  is  the  uneven  state  of  human  life  ;  and  it  afforded  me  a  great  many 
curious  speculations  afterwards,  when  I  had  a  little  recovered  my  first  surprise.  I 
considered  that  this  was  the  station  of  life  the  infinitely  wise  and  good  providence 
of  God  had  determined  for  me ;  that  as  I  could  not  foresee  what  the  ends  of  divine 
wisdom  might  be  in  all  this,  so  I  was  not  to  dispute  his  sovereignty,  who,  as  I  was 
his  creature,  had  an  undoubted  right  by  creation  to  govern  and  dispose  of  me  abso- 
lutely as  he  thought  fit ;  and  who,  as  I  was  a  creature  who  had  offended  him,  had 
likewise  a  judicial  right  to  condemn  me  to  what  punishment  he  thought  fit  ;  and  that 
it  was  my  part  to  submit  to  bear  his  indignation,  because  I  had  sinned  against  him. 

I  then  reflected,  that  God,  who  was  not  only  righteous,  but  omnipotent,  as  he 
had  thought  fit  thus  to  punish  and  afflict  me,  so  he  was  able  to  deliver  me  ;  that  if 
he  did  not  think  fit  to  do  it,  it  was  my  unquestioned  duty  to  resign  myself  abso- 
lutely and  entirely  to  his  will  :  and,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  my  duty  also  to  hope 
in  him,  pray  to  him,  and  quietly  to  attend  the  dictates  and  directions  of  his  daily 
providence. 

These  thoughts  took  me  up  many  hours,  days,  nay,  I  may  say,  weeks  and 
months  ;  and  one  particular  effect  of  my  cogitations  on  this  occasion  I  cannot  omit ; 
viz.,  one  morning  early,  lying  in  my  bed,  and  filled  with  thoughts  about  my  danger 
from  the  appearance  of  savages,  I  found  it  discomposed  me  very  much  ;  upon  which 
those  words  of  the  Scripture  came  into  my  thoughts,  "  Call  upon  me  in  the  day  of 
trouble,  and  I  will  deliver  thee,  and  thou  shalt  glorify  me." 

Upon  this,  rising  cheerfully  out  of  my  bed,  my  heart  was  not  only  comforted, 
but  I  was  guided  and  encouraged  to  pray  earnestly  to  God  for  deliverance.  When 
I  had  done  praying,  I  took  up  my  Bible,  and,  opening  it  to  read,  the  first  words 


THE    FOOTPRINT    ON    THE     SHORE.  275 

that  presented  to  me,  were,  "  Wait  on  the  Lord,  and  be  of  good  courage,  and  he 
shall  strengthen  thy  heart :  Wait,  I  say,  on  the  Lord."  It  is  impossible  to  express 
the  comfort  this  gave  me ;  and  in  return,  I  thankfully  laid  down  the  book,  and  was 
no  more  sad,  at  least,  not  on  that  occasion. 

In  the  middle  of  these  cogitations,  apprehensions,  and  reflections,  it  came  into 
my  thoughts  one  day,  that  all  this  might  be  a  mere  chimera  of  my  own,  and  that 
this  foot  might  be  the  print  of  my  own  foot,  when  I  came  on  shore  from  my  boat  : 
this  cheered  me  up  a  little  too,  and  I  began  to  persuade  myself  it  was  all  a  delusion  • 
that  it  was  nothing  else  but  my  own  foot ;  and  why  might  not  I  come  that  way 
from  the  boat,  as  well  as  I  was  going  that  way  to  the  boat  ?  Again,  I  considered 
also,  that  I  could  by  no  means  tell  for  certain  where  I  had  trod,  and  where  I  had 
not ;  and  that  if  at  last  this  was  only  the  print  of  my  own  foot,  I  had  played  the 
part  of  those  fools,  who  strive  to  make  stories  of  specters  and  apparitions,  and  then 
are  themselves  frighted  at  them  more  than  anybody  else. 

Now  I  began  to  take  courage,  and  to  peep  abroad  again  ;  for  I  had  not  stirred 
out  of  my  castle  for  three  days  and  nights,  so  that  I  began  to  starve  for  provision  ; 
for  I  had  little  or  nothing  within  doors,  but  some  barley-cakes  and  water.  Then  I 
knew  that  my  goats  wanted  to  be  milked  too,  which  usually  was  my  evening  diver- 
sion ;  and  the  poor  creatures  were  in  great  pain  and  inconvenience  for  want  of  it  ; 
and  indeed  it  almost  spoiled  some  of  them,  and  almost  dried  up  their  milk. 

Heartening  myself,  therefore,  with  the  belief,  that  this  was  nothing  but  the 
print  of  one  of  my  own  feet  (and  so  I  might  be  truly  said  to  start  at  my  own 
shadow),  I  began  to  go  abroad  again,  and  went  to  my  country-house  to  milk  my 
flock  ;  but  to  see  with  what  fear  I  went  forward,  how  often  I  looked  behind  me, 
how  I  was  ready,  every  now  and  then,  to  lay  down  my  basket,  and  run  for  my  life  ; 
it  would  have  made  any  one  have  thought  I  was  haunted  with  an  evil  conscience, 
or  that  I  had  been  lately  most  terribly  frighted  ;  and  so  indeed  I  had. 

However,  as  I  went  down  thus  two  or  three  days,  and  having  seen  nothing,  I 
began  to  be  a  little  bolder,  and  to  think  there  was  really  nothing  in  it  but  my  own 
imagination.  But  I  could  not  persuade  myself  fully  of  this,  till  I  should  go  down 
to  the  shore  again,  and  see  this  print  of  a  foot,  and  measure  it  by  my  own,  and  see 
if  there  was  any  similitude  or  fitness,  that  I  might  be  assured  it  was  my  own  foot. 
But  when  I  came  to  the  place  first,  it  appeared  evidently  to  me,  that  when  I  laid 
up  my  boat,  I  could  not  possibly  be  on  shore  anywhere  thereabouts.  Secondly, 
when  I  came  to  measure  the  mark  with  my  own  foot,  I  found  my  foot  not  so  large 
by  a  great  deal.  Both  these  things  filled  my  head  with  new  imaginations,  and  gave 
me  the  vapors  again  to  the  highest  degree  ;  so  that  I  shook  with  cold,  like  one  in 
an  ague  ;  and  I  went  home  again,  filled  with  the  belief,  that  some  man  or  men  had 
been  on  shore  there  ;  or,  in  short,  that  the  island  was  inhabited,  and  I  might  be 
surprised  before  I  was  aware  ;  and  what  course  to  take  for  my  security,  I  knew 
not.  O  what  ridiculous  resolutions  men  take,  when  possessed  with  fear !  It  de- 
prives them  of  the  use  of  those  means  which  reason  offers  for  their  relief. 

DANIEL  DE  FOE. 


276     THE    RIGHTS     OF    MAN.— TO     WILLIAM    ROTERTSON. 


THE     RIGHTS     OF     MAN. 

WE  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident :  that  all  men  are  created  equal ;  that 
they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain  unalienable  rights ;  that  among 
these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  ;  that,  to  secure  these  rights, 
governments  are  instituted  among  men,  deriving  their  just  powers  from  the  consent 
of  the  governed  ;  that,  whenever  any  form  of  government  becomes  destructive  of 
these  ends,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or  to  abolish  it,  and  to  institute  a 
new  government,  laying  its  foundation  on  such  principles,  and  organizing  its  powers 
in  such  form,  as  to  them  shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their  safety  and  happi- 
ness. Prudence,  indeed,  will  dictate  that  governments  long  established  should 
not  be  changed  for  light  and  transient  causes  ;  and,  accordingly,  all  experience  hath 
shown  that  mankind  are  more  disposed  to  surfer,  while  evils  are  sufferable,  than  to 
right  themselves  by  abolishing  the  forms  to  which  they  are  accustomed.  But  when 
a  long  train  of  abuses  and  usurpations,  pursuing  invariably  the  same  object,  evinces 
a  design  to  reduce  them  under  absolute  despotism,  it  is  their  right,  it  is  their  duty, 
to  throw  off  such  government,  and  to  provide  new  guards  for  their  future  security. 

THOMAS  JEFFERSON. 


TO     WILLIAM     ROBERTSON. 

Do  you  ask  me  about  my  course  of  life?  I  can  only  say  that  I  eat 
nothing  but  ambrosia,  drink  nothing  but  nectar,  breathe  nothing  but  incense,  and 
tread  on  nothing  but  flowers.  Every  man  I  meet,  and  still  more  every  lady,  would 
think  they  were  wanting  in  the  most  indispensable  duty,  if  they  did  not  make  to 
me  a  long  and  elaborate  harangue  in  my  praise.  What  happened  last  week,  when 
I  had  the  honor  of  being  presented  to  the  Dauphin's  children,  at  Versailles,  is  one 
of  the  most  curious  scenes  I  ever  yet  passed  through.  The  Due  de  B.,  the  eldest, 
a  boy  of  ten  years  old,  stepped  forth  and  told  me  how  many  friends  and  admirers  I 
had  in  this  country,  and  that  he  reckoned  himself  in  the  number  from  the  pleasure 
he  had  received  from  the  reading  of  many  passages  in  my  works.  When  he  had 
finished,  his  brother,  the  Count  of  P.,  who  is  two  years  younger,  began  his  discourse, 
and  informed  me  that  I  had  been  long  and  impatiently  expected  in  France,  and 
that  he,  himself,  expected  soon  to  have  great  satisfaction  from  the  reading  of  my 
fine  History.  But,  what  is  more  curious,  when  I  was  carried  thence  to  the  Count 
d'A.,  who  is  but  four  years  of  age,  I  heard  him  mumble  something,  which,  though 
he  had  forgot  it  in  the  way,  I  conjectured,  from  some  scattered  words,  to  have  been 
also  a  panegyric  dictated  to  him.  .  .  . 

DAVID  HUME. 


y."  277 


"STAY." 

"  I  INTEND,"  John  said,  "  as  soon  as  I  am  able,  to  leave  Norton  Bury,  and  go 
abroad  for  some  time." 

"Where?" 

"To  America.  It  is  the  best  country  for  a  young  man  who  has  neither  money, 
nor  kindred,  nor  position,  —  nothing,  in  fact,  but  his  own  right  hand  with  which  to 
carve  out  his  own  fortunes  —  as  I  will,  if  I  can." 

She  murmured  something  about  this  being  "quite  right." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so."  But  his  voice  had  resumed  that  formal  tone  which 
ever  and  anon  mingled  strangely  with  its  low,  deep  tenderness.  "  In  any  case,  I 
must  quit  England.  I  have  reasons  for  so  doing." 

"  What  reasons  ?  " 

The  question  seemed  to  startle  John  —  he  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"  If  you  wish,  I  will  tell  you,  in  order  that,  should  I  ever  come  back  —  or  if  I 
should  not  come  back  at  all,  you  who  were  kind  enough  to  be  my  friend  will  know 
I  did  not  go  away  from  mere  youthful  recklessness,  or  love  of  change." 

He  waited,  apparently  for  some  answer  —  but  it  came  not,  and  he  continued, — 

"  I  am  going,  because  there  has  befallen  me  a  great  trouble,  which,  while  I  stay 
here,  I  cannot  get  free  from,  or  overcome.  I  do  not  wish  to  sink  under  it  —  I  had 
rather,  as  you  said,  '  do  my  work  in  the  world,'  as  a  man  ought.  No  man  has  a 
right  to  say  unto  his  Maker  :  '  My  burden  is  heavier  than  I  can  bear.'  Do  you  not 
think  so  ? " 

"  I  do." 

"  Do  you  not  think  I  am  right  in  thus  meeting,  and  trying  to  conquer  an 
inevitable  ill  ? " 

"  Is  it  inevitable  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  John  answered  wildly.  "  Don't  reason  with  me  —  you  cannot  judge 
-  you  do  not  know.  It  is  enough  that  I  must  go.  If  I  stay  I  shall  become  un- 
worthy of  myself,  unworthy  of  —  Forgive  me,  I  have  no  right  to  talk  thus  ;  but  you 
called  me  '  Friend,'  and  I  would  like  you  to  think  kindly  of  me  always.  Because  — 
because  "  —  And  his  voice  shook  —  broke  down  utterly.  "  God  love  thee,  and  take 
care  of  thee,  wherever  I  may  go  !  " 

"John,  stay!" 

It  was  but  a  low,  faint  cry,  like  that  of  a  little  bird.  But  he  heard  it  —  felt  it. 
In  the  silence  of  the  dark  she  crept  up  to  him,  like  a  young  bird  to  its  mate,  and 
he  took  her  into  the  shelter  of  his  love  forever  more.  At  once,  all  was  made  clear 
between  them  ;  for  whatever  the  world  might  say,  they  were  in  the  sight  of  heaven 
equal,  and  she  received  as  much  as  she  gave. 

Miss  MULOCK. 


2-jS  THE     TRUE     TRACK. 


THE     TRUE     TRACK. 

Go  with  me,  if  you  please,  to  the  next  station-house,  and  look  off  upon  that  line 
of  railroad.  It  is  as  straight  as  an  arrow.  Out  run  the  iron  lines,  glittering  in  the 
sun, —  out,  as  far  as  we  can  see,  until,  converging  almost  to  a  single  thread,  they 
pierce  the  sky.  What  were  those  rails  laid  in  that  way  for  ?  It  is  a  road,  is  it  ? 
Try  your  cart  or  your  coach  there.  The  axletrees  are  too  narrow,  and  you  go 
bumping  along  upon  the  sleepers.  Try  a  wheelbarrow.  You  cannot  keep  it  on  the 
rail.  But  that  road  was  made  for  something.  Now  go  with  me  to  the  locomotive- 
shop.  What  is  this  ?  We  are  told  it  is  a  locomotive.  What  is  a  locomotive  ? 
Why,  it  is  a  carriage  moved  by  steam.  But  it  is  very  heavy.  The  wheels  would 
sink  into  a  common  road  to  the  axle.  That  locomotive  can  never  run  on  a  common 
road  ;  and  the  man  is  a  fool  who  built  it.  Strange  that  men  will  waste  time  and 
money  in  that  way !  But  stop  a  moment.  Why  wouldn't  those  wheels  just  fit 
those  rails  ?  We  measure  them,  and  then  we  go  to  the  track  and  measure  its 
gauge.  That  solves  the  difficulty.  Those  rails  were  intended  for  the  locomotive, 
and  the  locomotive  for  the  rails.  They  are  good  for  nothing  apart.  The  locomo- 
tive is  not  even  safe  anywhere  else.  If  it  should  get  off,  after  it  is  once  on,  it 
would  run  into  rocks  and  stumps,  and  bury  itself  in  sands  or  swamps  beyond 
recovery. 

Young  man,  you  are  a  locomotive.  You  are  a  thing  that  goes  by  a  power 
planted  inside  of  you.  You  are  made  to  go.  In  fact,  considered  as  a  machine,  you 
are  very  far  superior  to  a  locomotive.  The  maker  of  the  locomotive  is  man  ;  your 
maker  is  man's  Maker.  You  are  as  different  from  a  horse,  or  an  ox,  or  a  camel,  as 
a  locomotive  is  different  from  a  wheelbarrow,  a  cart,  or  a  coach.  Now,  do  you  sup- 
pose that  the  being  who  made  you  —  manufactured  your  machine,  and  put  into  it 
the  motive  power  —  did  not  make  a  special  road  for  you  to  run  upon  ?  My  idea  of 
religion  is  that  it  is  a  railroad  for  a  human  locomotive,  and  that  just  so  sure  as  it 
undertakes  to  run  upon  a  road  adapted  only  to  animal  power,  will  it  bury  its  wheels 
in  the  sand,  dash  itself  among  rocks,  and  come  to  inevitable  wreck.  If  you  don't 
believe  this,  try  the  other  thing.  Here  are  forty  roads  :  suppose  you  choose  one 
of  them,  and  see  where  you  come  out.  Here  is  the  dramshop  road.  Try  it.  Fol- 
low it,  and  see  how  long  it  will  be  before  you  come  to  a  stump  and  a  smash-up. 
Here  is  the  road  of  sensual  pleasure.  You  are  just  as  sure  to  bury  your  wheels  in 
the  dirt  as  you  try  it.  Your  machine  is  too  heavy  for  that  track  altogether.  Here 
is  the  winding,  uncertain  path  of  frivolity.  There  are  morasses  on  each  side  of  it, 
and,  with  the  headway  that  you  are  under,  you  will  be  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  pitch 
into  one  of  them.  Here  is  the  road  of  philosophy,  but  it  runs  through  a  country 
from  which  the  light  of  Heaven  is  shut  out ;  and  while  you  may  be  able  to  keep  your 
machine  right  side  up,  it  will  only  be  by  feeling  your  way  along  in  a  clumsy,  com- 
fortless kind  of  style,  and  with  no  certainty  of  ever  arriving  at  the  heavenly  station- 
house.  Here  is  the  road  of  skepticism.  That  is  covered  with  fog,  and  a  fence  runs 


SPIRITUAL     EMANCIPATION.  279 

across  it  within  ten  rods.  Don't  you  see  that  your  machine  was  never  intended  to 
run  on  those  roads?  Don't  you  know  that  it  never  was,  and  don't  you  know  that 
the  only  track  under  heaven  upon  which  it  can  run  safely  is  the  religious  track  ? 
Don't  you  know  that  just  as  long  as  you  keep  your  wheels  on  that  track,  wreck  is 
impossible?  Don't  you  know  that  it  is  the  only  track  on  which  wreck  is  not 
certain  ?  I  know  it,  if  you  don't ;  and  I  tell  you  that  on  that  track,  which  God  has 
laid  down  expressly  for  your  soul  to  run  upon,  your  soul  will  find  free  play  for  all 
its  wheels,  and  an  unobstructed  and  happy  progress.  It  is  straight  and  narrow, 
but  it  is  safe  and  solid,  and  furnishes  the  only  direct  route  to  the  heavenly  city. 
Now,  if  God  made  your  soul,  and  made  religion  for  it,  you  are  a  fool  if  you  refuse  to 
place  yourself  on  the  track.  You  cannot  prosper  anywhere  else,  and  your  machine 
will  not  run  anywhere  else. 

JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND. 


SPIRITUAL     EMANCIPATION. 

THE  current  skepticism  in  regard  to  the  tendencies  of  human  nature  proceeds 
upon  the  fallacy  that  a  man's  true  wealth,  the  wealth  he  covets  or  prizes,  is  exter- 
nal to  himself,  consisting  in  the  abundance  of  the  things  he  possesses.  The  skep- 
tic says  that  if  you  leave  men  free  from  police  restraint,  however  well  you  may 
educate  them,  there  will  be  no  security  for  property.  Of  course,  then,  he  believes 
that  man  values  these  outward  possessions  which  we  call  property,  above  all  things. 
There  is  no  sheerer  fallacy  current  than  this.  For  the  undue  value  men  set  upon 
this  sort  of  possession  now  grows  out  of  its  scarcity,  grows  out  of  the  fact  that  so 
many  are  utterly  destitute  of  it.  Appetite  is  never  excessive,  never  furious,  save 
where  it  has  been  starved.  The  frantic  hunger  we  see  it  so  often  exhibiting  under 
every  variety  of  criminal  form,  marks  only  the  hideous  starvation  to  which  society 
subjects  it.  It  is  not  a  normal,  but  a  morbid  state  of  the  appetite,  growing  exclu- 
sively out  of  the  unnatural  compression  which  is  imposed  upon  it  by  the  exigencies 
of  our  immature  society.  Every  appetite  and  passion  of  man's  nature  is  good  and 
beautiful,  and  destined  to  be  fully  enjoyed,  and  a  scientific  society  or  fellowship 
among  men  would  ensure  this  result,  without  allowing  any  compromise  of  the  in- 
dividual dignity,  especially  without  allowing  that  fierce  and  disgusting  abandon- 
ment to  them  which  disfigures  so  many  of  our  eminent  names  in  church  and  state, 
and  which  infallibly  attests  the  uncleanness  of  our  present  morality. 

Remove,  then,  the  existing  bondage  of  humanity,  remove  those  factitious  re- 
straints which  keep  appetite  and  passion  on  the  perpetual  lookout  for  escape,  like 
steam  from  an  over-charged  boiler,  and  their  force  would  instantly  become  conserv- 
ative instead  of  destructive. 


28o  A     SUDDEN    HURRICANE. 

For  man  is  destined  by  the  very  necessity  of  his  creation,  for  nothing  but  the 
obedience  of  his  inward  and  divine  self-hood,  for  the  obedience  of  God  within  him. 
Even  while  he  is  utterly  unconscious  of  his  true  or  inmost  self-hood,  the  aim  of 
his  whole  existence,  the  end  of  all  his  struggle  and  toil  is  to  realize  it  ;  and  when 
it  does  dawn  upon  him,  it  sheds  a  complete  calm  upon  the  turbid  sea  of  his 
outward  relations. 

The  effect  is  irresistible.  You  cannot  arouse  a  man  to  self-respect,  to  a  sense 
of  his  proper  humanity,  to  a  consciousness  of  the  divinity  which  constitutes  his 
being,  without  rendering  him  superior  to  outward  accident.  He  is  no  longer  the 
sport  of  passion,  of  conscience,  or  of  appetite.  The  master  of  the  house  has  come 
at  last,  and  his  servants  render  him  a  prompt  and  joyous  obedience.  No  more  in 
a  mere  symbolic,  but  in  a  very  real  sense,  the  Lord  has  entered  his  holy  temple  : 
all  the  earth,  the  entire  realm  of  the  outward  and  finite,  spontaneously  keeps 
silence  befoje  Him. 

HENRY   JAMES. 


A     SUDDEN     HURRICANE. 

THE  evening,  which  had  been  beautiful  before,  had  undergone  a  change.  The 
moon  was  obscured,  and  gigantic  shadows,  dense  and  winged,  hurried  with  deep- 
toned  cries  along  the  heavens,  as  if  in  angry  pursuit.  Occasionally,  in  sudden 
gusts,  the  winds  moaned  heavily  among  the  pines  ;  a  cooling  freshness  impreg- 
nated the  atmosphere,  and  repeated  flashes  of  sharpest  lightning  imparted  to  the 
prospect  a  splendor  which  illuminated,  while  increasing  the  perils  of  that  path 
which  our  adventurers  were  now  pursuing.  Large  drops,  at  moments,  fell  from 
the  driving  clouds,  and  everything  promised  the  coming  on  of  one  of  those  sudden 
and  severe  thunder-storms,  so  common  to  the  early  summer  of  the  South. 

Singleton  looked  up  anxiously  at  the  wild  confusion  of  sky  and  forest  around 
him.  The  woods  seemed  to  apprehend  the  danger,  and  the  melancholy  sighing  of 
their  branches  appeared  to  indicate  an  instinctive  consciousness,  which  had  its 
moral  likeness  to  the  feeling  in  the  bosom  of  the  observer.  How  many  of  these 
mighty  pines  were  to  be  prostrated  under  that  approaching  tempest!  how  many 
beautiful  vines,  which  had  clung  to  them  like  affections  that  only  desire  an  object 
to  fasten  upon,  would  share  in  their  ruin  !  How  could  Singleton  overlook  the 
analogy  between  the  fortune  of  his  family  and  friends,  and  that  which  his  imagina- 
tion depicted  as  the  probable  destiny  of  the  forest  ? 

"  We  shall  have  it  before  long,  Humphries,  for  you  see  the  black  horns  yonder 
in  the  break  before  us.  I  begin  to  feel  the  warm  breath  of  the  hurricane  already, 
and  we  must  look  out  for  some  smaller  woods.  I  like  not  these  high  pines  in  a 


A  SUDDEN   STORM. 


A     SUDDEN    HURRICANE.  283 

storm  like  this,  so  use  your  memory,  man,  and  lead  on  to  some  thicket  of  scrubby 
oaks  —  if  you  can  think  of  one  near  at  hand.  Ha  !  —  we  must  speed  —  we  have 
lingered  too  long.  Why  did  you  not  hurry  me  ?  You  should  have  known  how 
difficult  it  was  for  me  to  hurry  myself  in  such  a  situation." 

This  was  spoken  by  Singleton,  at  moments  when  the  gusts  permitted  him  to 
be  heard,  and  when  the  irregularity  of  the  route  suffered  his  companion  to  keep 
beside  him.  The  lieutenant  answered  promptly  :  — 

"  That  was  the  very  reason  why  I  did  not  wish  to  hurry  you,  major.  I  knew 
you  hadn't  seen  your  folks  for  a  mighty  long  spell,  and  so  I  couldn't  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  break  in  upon  you,  though  I  felt  dub'ous  that  the  storm  would  be  soon 
upon  us." 

"  A  bad  reason  for  a  soldier.  Friends  and  family  are  scarcely  desirable  at  such 
a  time  as  this,  since  we  can  seldom  see  them,  or  only  see  their  suffering.  Ha !  — 
that  was  sharp  !  " 

"Yes,  sir,  but  at  some  distance.  We  are  coming  to  the  stunted  oaks  now, 
which  are  rather  squat,  and  not  so  likely  to  give  as  the  pines.  There  ain't  so  much 
of  'em,  you  see.  Keep  a  lookout,  sir,  or  the  branches  will  pull  you  from  your 
horse.  The  road  here  is  pretty  much  overgrown,  and  the  vines  crowd  thick 
upon  it." 

"  A  word  in  season  !  "  exclaimed  Singleton,  as  he  drew  back  before  an  over- 
hanging branch  which  had  been  bent  by  the  wind,  and  was  thrust  entirely  across 
his  path.  A  few  moments  were  spent  in  rounding  the  obstruction,  and  the  storm 
grew  heavier ;  the  winds  no  longer  labored  among  the  trees,  but  rushed  along  with 
a  force  which  flattened  their  elastic  tops,  so  that  it  either  swept  clean  through  them 
or  laid  them  prostrate  forever.  A  stronger  hold,  a  positive  straining  in  their  effort, 
became  necessary  now,  with  both  riders,  in  order  to  secure  themselves  firmly  in 
their  saddles  ;  while  their  horses,  with  uplifted  ears,  and  an  occasional  snort,  in 
this  manner,  not  less  than  by  the  shiver  of  their  whole  frames,  betrayed  their  own 
apprehensions,  and,  as  it  were,  appealed  to  their  masters  for  protection. 

"  The  dumb  beast  knows  where  to  look,  after  all,  major;  he  knows  that  man  is 
most  able,  you  see,  to  take  care  of  him,  though  man  wants  his  keeper  too.  But 
the  beast  don't  know  that.  He's  like  the  good  soldier  that  minds  his  own  captain, 
and  looks  to  him  only,  though  the  captain  himself  has  a  general  from  whom  he 
gets  his  orders.  Now,  say  what  you  will,  major,  there's  reason  in  the  horse  —  the 
good  horse,  I  mean,  for  some  horses  that  I've  straddled  in  my  time  have  shown 
themselves  mighty  foolish  and  unreasonable." 

Humphries  stroked  the  neck  of  his  steed  fondly,  and  coaxed  him  by  an  affec- 
tionate word,  as  he  uttered  himself  thus,  with  no  very  profound  philosophy.  He 
seemed  desirous  of  assuring  the  steed  that  he  held  hinr  of  the  better  class,  and 
favored  him  accordingly.  Singleton  assented  to  the  notion  of  his  companion,  who 
did  not,  however,  see  the  smile  which  accompanied  his  answer. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Humphries,  the  horse  knows  his  master,  and  is  the  least  able  or 
willing  of  all  animals  to  do  without  him.  I  would  we  had  our  nags  in  safety  now  : 
I  would  these  five  miles  were  well  over." 


284  A     SUDDEN    HURRICANE. 

"  It's  a  tough  ride  ;  but  that's  so  much  the  better,  major,  the  less  apt  we  are  to 
be  troubled  with  the  tories." 

"  I  should  rather  plunge  through  a  crowd  of  them,  now,  in  a  charge  against 
superior  cavalry,  than  take  it  in  such  a  night  as  this,  when  the  wind  lifts  you,  at 
every  bound,  half  out  of  your  saddle,  and,  but  for  the  lightning,  which  comes  quite 
too  nigh  to  be  at  all  times  pleasant,  your  face  would  make  momentary  acquaintance 
with  boughs  and  branches,  vines  and  thorns,  that  give  no  notice  and  leave  their 
mark  at  every  brush.  A  charge  were  far  less  difficult." 

"  Almost  as  safe,  sir,  that's  certain,  and  not  more  unpleasant.  But  let  us  hold 
up,  major,  for  a  while,  and  push  for  the  thicket.  We  shall  now  have  the  worst  of 
the  hurricane.  See  the  edge  of  it  yonder  —  how  black!  and  now  —  only  hear  the 
roaring !  " 

"  Yes,  it  comes.  I  feel  it  on  my  cheek.  It  sends  a  breath  like  fire  before  it, 
sultry  and  thick,  as  if  it  had  been  sweeping  all  day  over  beds  of  the  hottest  sand. 
Lead  the  way,  Humphries." 

"  Here,  sir,  — follow  close  and  quick.  There's  a  clump  of  forest,  with  nothing 
but  small  trees,  lying  to  the  left  —  now,  sir,  that  flash  will  show  it  to  you  —  there 
we  can  be  snug  till  the  storm  passes  over.  It  has  a  long  body  and  it  shakes 
mightily,  but  it  goes  too  fast  to  stay  long  in  its  journey,  and  a  few  minutes,  sir  — 
a  few  minutes  is  all  we  want.  Mind  the  vine  there,  sir ;  and  there,  to  your  left,  is 
a  gully,  where  an  old  tree's  roots  have  come  up.  Now,  major,  the  sooner  we  dis- 
mount and  squat  with  our  horses  the  better." 

They  had  now  reached  the  spot  to  which  Humphries  had  directed  his  course  — • 
a  thick  undergrowth  of  small  timber  —  of  field  pine,  the  stunted  oak,  black-jack, 
and  hickory  —  few  of  sufficient  size  to  feel  the  force  of  the  tempest,  or  prove  very 
conspicuous  conductors  of  the  lightning.  Obeying  the  suggestion  and  following 
the  example  of  his  companion,  Singleton  dismounted,  and  the  two  placed  them- 
selves and  their  horses  as  much  upon  the  sheltered  side  of  the  clump  as  possible, 
yet  sufficiently  far  to  escape  any  danger  from  its  overthrow. 

Here  they  awaited  the  coming  of  the  tempest.  The  experienced  woodman  alone 
could  have  spoken  for  its  approach.  A  moment's  pause  had  intervened,  when  the 
suddenly  aroused  elements  seemed  as  suddenly  to  have  sunk  into  grim  repose.  A 
slight  sighing  of  the  wind  only,  as  it  wound  sluggishly  along  the  distant  wood,  had 
its  warning,  and  the  dense  blackness  of  the  embodied  storm  was  only  evident  at 
moments  when  the  occasional  rush  of  the  lightning  made  visible  its  gloomy  terrors. 

"  It's  making  ready  for  a  charge,  major  :  it's  just  like  a  good  captain,  sir,  that 
calls  in  his  scouts  and  sentries,  and  orders  all  things  to  keep  quiet,  and  without 
beat  of  drum  gets  all  fixed  to  spring  out  from  the  bush  upon  them  that's  coming. 
It  won't  be  long  now,  sir,  before  we  get  it  ;  but  just  now  it's  still  as  the  grave. 
It's  waiting  for  its  outriders  —  them  long  streaky  white  clouds  it  sent  out  an  hour 
ago,  like  so  many  scouts.  They're  a-coming  up  now,  and  when  they  all  get  up  to- 
gether —  then  look  out  for  the  squall.  Quiet  now,  Mossfoot  —  quiet  now,  creature 
—  don't  be  frightened  —  it's  not  a-going  to  hurt  you,  old  fellow  —  not  a  bit." 

Humphries  patted  his  favorite  while  speaking,  and  strove  to  soothe  and  quiet 


A    SUDDEN    HURRICANE.  285 

the  impatience  which  both  horses  exhibited.  This  was  in  that  strange  pause  of  the 
storm  which  is  its  most  remarkable  feature  in  the  South  —  that  singular  interreg- 
num of  the  winds,  when,  after  giving  repeated  notice  of  their  most  terrific  action, 
they  seem  almost  to  forget  their  purpose,  and  for  a  few  moments  appear  to  slumber 
in  their  inactivity. 

But  the  pause  was  only  momentary,  and  was  now  at  an  end.  In  another  in- 
stant, they  heard  the  rush  and  the  roar,  as  of  a  thousand  wild  steeds  of  the  desert 
ploughing  the  sands  ;  then  followed  the  mournful  howling  of  the  trees  —  the  shriek- 
ing of  the  lashed  winds,  as  if,  under  the  influence  of  some  fierce  demon  who  enjoyed 
his  triumph,  they  plunged  through  the  forest,  wailing  at  their  own  destructive 
progress,  yet  compelled  unswervingly  to  hurry  forward.  They  twisted  the  pine 
from  its  place,  snapping  it  as  a  reed,  while  its  heavy  fall  to  the  ground  which  it 
had  so  long  sheltered,  called  up,  even  amid  the  roar  of  the  tempest,  a  thousand 
echoes  from  the  forest.  The  branches  of  the  wood  were  prostrated  like  so  much 
heather,  wrested  and  swept  from  the  tree  which  yielded  them  without  a  struggle  to 
the  blast ;  and  the  crouching  horses  and  riders  below  were  in  an  instant  covered 
with  a  cloud  of  fragments.  These  were  the  precursors  merely ;  then  came  the 
arrowy  flight  and  form  of  the  hurricane  itself  —  its  actual  bulk  —  its  embodied 
power,  pressing  along  through  the  forest  in  a  gyratory  progress,  not  fifty  yards 
wide,  never  distending  in  width,  yet  capriciously  winding  from  right  to  left,  and 
left  to  right,  in  a  zigzag  direction,  as  if  a  playful  spirit  thus  strove  to  mix  with  all 
the  terrors  of  destruction  the  sportive  mood  of  the  most  idle  fancy.  In  this  prog- 
ress, the  whole  wood  in  its  path  underwent  prostration  —  the  tall,  proud  pine,  the 
deep-rooted  and  unbending  oak,  the  small  cedar  and  the  pliant  shrub,  torn,  dis- 
membered of  their  fine  proportions  ;  some,  only  by  a  timely  yielding  to  the  pres- 
sure, passed  over  with  little  injury,  as  if  too  much  scorned  by  the  assailant  for  his 
wrath.  The  larger  trees  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  spot  where  our  partisans  had 
taken  shelter,  shared  the  harsher  fortune  generally,  for  they  were  in  the  very  track 
of  the  tempest.  Too  sturdy  and  massive  to  yield,  they  withheld  their  homage,  and 
were  either  snapped  off  relentlessly  and  short,  or  were  torn  and  twisted  up  from 
their  very  roots.  The  poor  horses,  with  eyes  staring  in  the  direction  of  the  storm, 
with  ears  erect,  and  manes  flying  in  the  wind,  stood  trembling  in  every  joint,  too 
much  terrified,  or  too  conscious  of  their  helplessness,  to  attempt  to  fly.  All  around 
the  crouching  party  the  woods  for  several  seconds  absolutely  flattened.  Huge 
trees  were  prostrated,  and  their  branches  were  clustering  thickly,  and  almost  form- 
ing a  prison  around  them  ;  leaving  it  doubtful,  as  the  huge  terror  rolled  over  their 
heads,  whether  they  could  ever  make  their  escape  from  the  enclosure.  Rush  after 
rush  of  the  trooping  winds  went  over  them,  keeping  them  immovable  in  their 
crowded  shelter  and  position  —  each  succeeding  troop  wilder  and  weightier  than 
the  last,  until  at  length  a  sullen,  bellowing  murmur,  which  before  they  had  not 
heard,  announced  the  greater  weight  of  the  hurricane  to  be  overthrowing  the  forests 
in  the  distance. 

The  chief  danger  had  overblown.  Gradually  the  warm,  oppressive  breath 
passed  off ;  the  air  again  grew  suddenly  cool,  and  a  gush  of  heavy  drops  came  fall- 


286 


ITALIAN    LIFE. 


ing  from  the  heavens,  as  if  they  too  had  been  just  released  from  the  intolerable 
pressure  which  had  burdened  earth.  Moaning  pitifully,  the  prostrated  trees  and 
shrubs,  those  which  had  survived  the  storm,  though  shorn  by  its  scythes,  gradually 
and  seemingly  with  painful  effort,  once  more  elevated  themselves  to  their  old  posi- 
tion. Their  sighings,  as  they  did  so,  were  almost  human  to  the  ears  of  our  crouch- 
ing warriors,  whom  their  movement  in  part  released.  Far  and  near,  the  moaning 
of  the  forest  around  them  was  strangely,  but  not  unpleasantly,  heightened  in  its 
effect  upon  their  senses,  by  the  distant  and  declining  roar  of  the  past  and  far- 
travelling  hurricane,  as  ploughing  the  deep  woods  and  laying  waste  all  in  its  prog- 
ress, it  rushed  on  to  a  meeting  with  the  kindred  storms  that  gather  about  the 
gloomy  Cape  Hatteras,  and  stir  and  foam  along  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic. 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 


ITALIAN     LIFE. 


.  .  .  The  manners  of  Italy 
are  so  much  changed  since  we 
were  here  last,  the  alteration  is 
scarcely  credible.  They  say  it 
has  been  by  the  last  war.  The 
French,  being  masters,  intro- 
duced all  their  customs,  which 
were  eagerly  embraced  by  the 
ladies,  and  I  believe  will  never 
be  laid  aside ;  yet  the  different 
governments  make  different  man- 
ners in  every  state.  You  know, 
though  the  republic  is  not  rich, 
here  are  many  private  families 
vastly  so,  and  live  at  a  great  su- 
perfluous expense  :  all  the  people 
of  the  first  quality  keep  coaches 
as  fine  as  the  Speaker's,  and 
some  of  them  two  or  three, 
though  the  streets  are  too  narrow 
to  use  them  in  the  town  ;  but 
they  take  the  air  in  them,  and 
their  chairs  carry  them  to  the 

The  liveries  are  all  plain  :  gold  or  silver  being  forbidden  to  be  worn  within 

e  walls,  the  habits  are  all  obliged  to  be  black,  but  they  wear  exceedingly  fine  lace 

and  linen  ;  and  in  their  country-houses,  which  are  generally  in  the  fauxbourg,  they 


ONE    TYPE    OK    ITALIAN    BEAUTY. 


PXOGXESS. 


287 


dress  very  richly,  and  have  extremely  fine  jewels.  Here  is  nothing  cheap  but 
houses.  A  palace  fit  for  a  prince  may  be  hired  for  fifty  pounds  per  annum  :  I 
mean  unfurnished.  All  games  of  chance  are  strictly  prohibited,  and  it  seems  to 
me  the  only  law  they  do  not  try  to  evade :  they  play  at  quadrille,  picquet,  etc.,  but 
not  high.  Here  are  no  regular  public  assemblies.  I  have  been  visited  by  all  of  the 
first  rank,  and  invited  to  several  fine  dinners,  particularly  to  the  wedding  of  one  of 
the  House  of  Spinola,  where  there  were  ninety-six  sat  down  to  table,  and  I  think 
the  entertainment  one  of  the  finest  I  ever  saw.  There  was,  the  night  following, 
a  ball  and  supper  for  the  same  company,  with  the  same  profusion.  They  tell  me 
that  all  their  great  marriages  are  kept  in  the  same  public  manner.  Nobody  keeps 
more  than  two  horses,  all  their  journeys  being  post  ;  the  expense  of  them,  includ- 
ing the  coachman,  is  (I  am  told)  fifty  pounds  per  annum.  A  chair  is  very  nearly 
as  much  ;  I  give  eighteen  francs  a  week  for  mine.  The  senators  can  converse 
with  no  strangers  during  the  time  of  their  magistracy,  which  lasts  two  years. 
The  number  of  servants  is  regulated,  and  almost  every  lady  has  the  same,  which 
is  two  footmen,  a  gentleman  usher,  and  a  page,  who  follow  her  chair. 

LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


PROGRESS. 

THE  Greeks  had  the  very  largest  ideas  upon  the  training  of  man,  and  produced 
specimens  of  our  kind  with  gifts  that  have  never  been  surpassed.  But  the  nature 
of  man,  such  as  they  knew  it,  was  scarcely  at  all  developed  ;  nay,  it  was  maimed, 
in  its  supreme  capacity  —  in  its  relations  towards  God.  Hence,  as  in  the  visions 
of  the  prophet,  so  upon  the  roll  of  history,  the  imposing  fabrics  of  ancient  civiliza- 
tion never  have  endured.  Greece  has  bequeathed  to  us  her  ever  living  tongue,  and 
the  immortal  productions  of  her  intellect.  Rome  made  ready  for  Christendom  the 
elements  of  polity  and  law  ;  but  the  brilliant  assemblage  of  endowments  which 
constitutes  civilization,  having  no  root  in  itself,  could  not  bear  the  shocks  of  time 
and  vicissitude  ;  it  came  and  it  went ;  it  was  seen  and  it  was  gone. 

We  now  watch  with  a  trembling  hope,  the  course  of  that  later  and  Christian 
civilization  which  arose  out  of  the  ashes  of  the  old  heathen  world,  and  ask  ourselves 
whether,  like  the  gospel  itself,  so  that  which  the  gospel  has  wrought  beyond  itself 
in  the  manners,  arts,  laws,  and  institutions  of  men,  is  in  such  manner  salted  with 
perpetual  life,  that  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail  against  it  ?  Will  the  civiliza- 
tion, which  was  springing  upwards  from  the  days  of  Charlemagne,  and  which  now 
over  the  face  of  Europe  and  America,  seeking  to  present  to  us  in  bewildering  con- 
flict the  mingled  signs  of  decrepitude  and  of  vigor,  perish  like  its  older  types,  and 
like  them  be  known  thereafter  only  in  its  fragments  ;  or  does  it  bear  a  icharmed 


288  PROGRESS. 

life,  and  will  it  give  shade  from  the  heat  and  shelter  from  the  storm  to  all  genera- 
tions of  man  ? 

In  any  answer  to  such  a  question,  it  would  perhaps  be  easier  to  say  what  would 
not  than  what  would  be  involved.  But  some  things  we  may  observe  which  may  be 
among  the  material  of  a  reply. 

The  arts  of  war  are  now  so  allied  with  those  of  peace,  that  barbarism,  once  so 
terrible,  is  reduced  to  physical  impotence;  and  what  civilized  man  has  had  the  wit 
to  create,  he  has  also  the  strength  to  defend.  Thus  one  grand  destructive  agency 
is  paralyzed.  Time,  indeed,  is  the  great  destroyer ;  but  his  power,  too,  is  greatly 
neutralized  by  printing,  by  commerce  which  lays  the  foundation  of  friendship 
among  nations,  by  ease  of  communication  which  binds  men  together,  by  that 
diffusion  of  intelligence  which  multiplies  the  natural  guardians  of  civilizations. 
These  are  perhaps  not  merely  isolated  phenomena.  Perhaps  they  are  but  wit- 
nesses, and  but  a  few  among  many  witnesses,  to  the  vast  change  which  has  been 
wrought  since  the  advent  of  our  Lord  in  the  state  of  man.  Perhaps  they  re-echo 
to  us  the  truth  that  apart  from  sound  and  sure  relations  to  its  Maker,  the  fitful 
efforts  of  mankind  must  needs  be  worsted  in  the  conflict  with  chance  and  change ; 
but  that  when  by  the  dispensation  of  Christianity  the  order  of  our  moral  nature 
was  restored,  when  the  rightful  King  had  once  more  taken  his  place  upon  his 
throne,  then  indeed,  civilization  might  come  to  have  a  meaning  and  a  vitality  such 
as  had  before  been  denied  it.  Then,  at  length,  it  had  obtained  the  key  to  all  the 
mysteries  of  the  nature  of  man,  to  all  the  anomalies  of  its  condition.  Then  it  had 
obtained  the  ground  plan  of  that  nature  in  all  its  fulness,  which  before  had  been 
known  only  in  remnants  or  in  fragments  ;  fragments  of  which,  even  as  now  in  the 
toppling  remains  of  some  ancient  church  or  castle,  the  true  grandeur  and  the 
ethereal  beauty  were  even  the  more  conspicuous  because  of  the  surrounding  ruins. 
But  fragments  still,  and  fragments  only,  until,  by  the  bringing  of  life  and  immor- 
tality to  light  the  parts  of  our  nature  were  reunited,  its  harmony  was  re-established, 
tRe  riddle  of  life,  heretofore  unsolved,  was  at  length  read  as  a  discipline,  and  so 
obtained  its  just  interpretation.  All  that  had  before  seemed  idle  conflict,  wasted 
energy,  barren  effort,  was  seen  to  be  but  the  preparation  for  a  glorious  future ;  and 
death  itself  instead  of  extinguishing  the  last  hopes  of  man,  became  the  means  and 
the  pledge  of  his  perfection. 

WILLIAM  E.   GLADSTONE. 


PERSONAL     INFLUENCE.  289 


PERSONAL     INFLUENCE. 

ON  went  the  talk  and  laughter.  Two  or  three  of  the  little  boys  in  the  long 
dormitory  were  already  in  bed,  sitting  up  with  their  chins  on  their  knees.  The 
light  burned  clear,  the  noise  went  on.  It  was  a  trying  moment  for  Arthur,  the 
poor  little  lonely  boy  ;  however,  this  time  he  didn't  ask  Tom  what  he  might  or 
might  not  do,  but  dropped  on  his  knees  by  his  bedside,  as  he  had  done  every  day 
from  his  childhood,  to  open  his  heart  to  Him  who  heareth  the  cry  and  beareth  the 
sorrows  of  the  tender  child,  and  the  strong  man  in  agony.  .  .  . 

There  were  many  boys  in  the  room  by  whom  that  little  scene  was  taken  to 
heart  before  they  slept.  But  sleep  seemed  to  have  deserted  the  pillow  of  poor 
Tom.  For  some  time  his  excitement,  and  the  flood  of  memories  which  chased  one 
another  through  his  brain  kept  him  from  thinking  or  resolving.  His  head  throbbed, 
his  heart  leapt,  and  he  could  hardly  keep  himself  from  springing  out  of  bed  and 
rushing  about  the  room.  Then  the  thought  of  his  own  mother  came  across  him, 
and  the  promise  he  had  made  at  her  knee,  years  ago,  never  to  forget  to  kneel  by 
his  bedside,  and  give  himself  up  to  his  Father,  before  he  laid  his  head  on  the  pil- 
low, from  which  it  might  never  rise  ;  and  he  lay  down  gently  and  cried  as  if  his 
heart  would  break.  He  was  only  fourteen  years  old. 

It  was  no  light  act  of  courage  in  those  days  for  a  little  fellow  to  say  his  prayers 
publicly,  even  at  Rugby.  A  few  years  later,  when  Arnold's  manly  piety  had  begun 
to  leaven  the  school,  the  tables  turned  ;  before  he  died,  in  the  school-house,  at  least, 
and  I  believe  in  the  other  houses,  the  rule  was  the  other  way.  But  poor  Tom  had 
come  to  school  in  other  times.  The  first  few  nights  after  he  came  he  did  not  kneel 
down  because  of  the  noise,  but  sat  up  in  bed  till  the  candle  was  out,  and  then  stole 
out  and  said  his  prayers,  in  fear  lest  some  one  should  find  him  out.  So  did  many 
another  poor  little  fellow.  Then  he  began  to  think  that  he  might  just  as  well  say 
his  prayers  in  bed,  and  then  it  didn't  matter  whether  he  was  kneeling,  or  sitting, 
or  lying  down.  And  so  it  had  come  to  pass  with  Tom,  as  with  all  who  will  not 
confess  their  Lord  before  men  ;  and  for  the  last  year  he  had  probably  not  said  his 
prayers  in  earnest  a  dozen  times. 

Poor  Tom !  the  first  and  bitterest  feeling  which  was  likely  to  break  his  heart 
was  the  sense  of  his  own  cowardice.  The  vice  of  all  others  which  he  loathed  was 
brought  in  and  burned  in  on  his  own  soul.  He  had  lied  to  his  mother,  to  his  con- 
science, to  his  God.  How  could  he  bear  it  ?  And  then  the  poor  little  weak  boy, 
whom  he  had  pitied  and  almost  scorned  for  his  weakness,  had  done  that  which  he, 
braggart  as  he  was,  dared  not  do.  The  first  dawn  of  comfort  came  to  him  in 
swearing  to  himself  that  he  would  stand  by  that  boy  through  thick  and  thin,  and 
cheer  him,  and  help  him,  and  bear  his  burdens,  for  the  good  deed  done  that  night. 
Then  he  resolved  to  write  home  next  day  and  tell  his  mother  all,  and  what  a  coward 
her  son  had  been.  And  then  peace  came  to  him,  as  he  resolved  lastly,  to  bear  his 
testimony  next  morning.  The  morning  would  be  harder  than  the  night  to  begin 


290 


PERSONAL     INFLUENCE. 


with,  but  he  felt  that  he  could  not  afford  to  let  one  chance  slip.  Several  times  he 
faltered,  for  the  devil  showed  him  first  all  his  old  friends  calling  him  "  Saint  "  and 
"  Square-toes,"  and  a  dozen  hard  names,  and  whispered  to  him  that  his  motives 
would  be  misunderstood,  and  he  would  only  be  misunderstood,  and  he  would  only 
be  left  alone  with  the  new  boy  ;  whereas  it  was  his  duty  to  keep  all  means  of  influ- 
ence, that  he  might  do  good  to  the  largest  number.  And  then  came  the  more 
subtle  temptation,  "  Shall  I  not  be  showing  myself  braver  than  others  by  doing 
this  ?  Have  I  any  right  to  begin  it  now  ?  Ought  I  not  rather  to  pray  in  my  own 
study,  letting  other  boys  know  that  I  do  so,  and  trying  to  lead  them  to  it,  while  in 
public  at  least  I  should  go  on  as  I  have  done?"  However,  his  good  angel  was  too 

^ strong   that  night,  and 

he  turned  on  his  side 
and  slept,  tired  of  try- 
ing to  reason  but  re- 
solved to  follow  the 
impulse  which  had  been 
so  strong,  and  in  which 
he  had,  found  peace. 

Next  morning  he 
was  up  and  washed  and 
dressed,  all  but  his 
jacket  and  waist-coat, 
just  as  the  ten  min- 
utes' bell  began  to  ring, 
and  then  in  the  face  of 
the  whole  room  knelt 
down  to  pray.  Not  five 
words  could  he  say  — 
the  bell  mocked  him  ; 
he  was  listening  for 
every  whisper  in  the 

room  —  what  were  they  all  thinking  of  him  ?  He  was  ashamed  to  go  on  kneeling 
ashamed  to  rise  from  his  knees.  At  last,  as  it  were  from  his  inmost  heart,  a  still 
small  voice  seemed  to  breathe  forth  the  words  of  the  publican,  "  God  be  merciful 
unto  me  a  sinner!"  He  repeated  them  over  and  over,  clinging  to  them  as  for  his 
life,  and  rose  from  his  knees  comforted  and  humbled,  and  ready  to  face  the  whole 
world.  It  was  not  needed  :  two  other  boys  beside  Arthur  had  already  followed  his 
example,  and  he  went  down  to  the  great  school  with  a  glimmering  of  another 
lesson  in  his  heart  —  the  lesson  that  he  who  has  conquered  his  own  coward  spirit 
has  conquered  the  whole  outward  world  ;  and  that  other  one  which  the  old  prophet 
learned  in  the  cave  in  Mount  Horeb,  that  however  we  may  fancy  ourselves 
alone  on  the  side  of  good,  the  King  and  Lord  of  men  is  nowhere  without  his  wit- 
nesses ;  for  in  every  society  there  are  those  who  have  not  bowed  the  knee  to  Baal. 

THOMAS  HUGHES. 


RUGBY   SCHOOL. 


MR.     TARBOX    AND    ZOSEPHINE.  291 


MR.     TARBOX     AND     ZOSEPHINE. 

SHE  nodded  and  began  to  move  slowly  on,  he  following. 

"  I'm  not  betraying  any  one's  confidence,"  persisted  he;  "but  I  can't  help  but 
have  a  care  for  you.  Not  that  you  need  it,  or  anybody's.  You  can  take  care  of 
yourself  if  any  man  or  woman  can.  Every  time  your  foot  touches  the  ground  it 
says  so  as  plain  as  words.  That's  what  first  caught  my  fancy.  You  haven't  got  to 
have  somebody  to  take  care  of  you.  Oh,  Josephine !  that's  just  why  I  want  to 
take  care  of  you  so  bad  !  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  and  I  used  to  like  to  do  it  ;  I 
was  just  that  selfish  and  small ;  but  love's  widened  me.  I  can  take  care  of  myself  ; 
but,  oh !  what  satisfaction  is  there  in  it  ?  Is  there  any  ?  Now,  I  ask  you  !  It 
may  do  for  you,  for  you're  worth  taking  care  of  ;  but  I  want  to  take  care  of  some 
thing  I  needn't  be  ashamed  to  love  ! "  He  softly  stole  her  hand  as  they  went. 
She  let  it  stay,  yet  looked  away  from  him,  up  through  the  darkling  branches,  and 
distressfully  shook  her  head. 

"  Don't,  Josephine  !  —  don't  do  that !  I  want  you  to  take  care  of  me.  You 
could  do  better,  I  know,  if  love  wasn't  the  count ;  but  when  it  comes  to  loving  you, 
I'm  the  edition  deloox  !  I  know  you've  an  aspiring  nature,  but  so  have  I  ;  and  I 
believe  with  you  to  love  and  you  loving  me,  and  counselling  and  guiding  me,  I 
could  climb  high.  Oh,  Josephine  !  it  isn't  this  poor  Tarbox  I'm  asking  you  to  give 
yourself  to  ;  it's  the  Tarbox  that  is  to  be ;  it's  the  coming  Tarbox  !  Why,  it's  even 
a  good  business  move  !  If  it  wasn't,  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  !  You  know  I  can, 
and  will,  take  the  very  best  care  of  everything  you've  got  ;  and  I  know  you'll  take 
the  same  of  mine.  It's  a  good  move,  every  way.  Why,  here's  everything  just 
fixed  for  it  !  Listen  to  the  mocking-bird  !  See  him  yonder,  just  at  the  right  of 
the  stile.  See  !  Oh,  Josephine  !  don't  you  see  he  isn't 

'  Still  singing  where  the  weeping-willows  wave  ;' 

he's    on   the   myrtle  ;  the   myrtle,    Josephine,  and   the   crape-myrtle   at   that  !  - 
widowhood,  unwidowed  !  -      Now  he's  on  the  fence,  —but  he'll  not  stay  there,  - 
and  you  mustn't  either  ! "     The  suitor  smiled  at  his  own  ludicrousness,  yet  for  all 
that  looked  beseechingly  in  earnest.     He  stood  still  again,  continuing  to  hold  her 
hand.     She   stole  a  furtive   glance   here  and    there  for  possible  spectators.     He 
smiled  again. 

"  You  don't  see  anybody  ;  the  world  waives  its  claim."  But  there  was  such 
distress  on  her  face  that  his  smile  passed  away,  and  he  made  a  new  effort  to  ac 
commodatehis  suit  to  her  mood. 

"  Josephine,  there's  no  eye  on  us  except  it's  overhead.  Tell  me  this  ;  if  he 
that  was  yours  until  ten  years  ago  was  looking  down  now  and  could  speak  to  us, 
don't  you  believe  he'd  say  yes  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  dunno.     Not  to-day  !     Not  dis  day  !  "     The  widow's  eyes  met  his  gaze 


292  MR.     TAR  BOX    AND    ZOSEPHINE. 

of  tender  inquiry  and  then  sank  to  the  ground.     She  shook  her  head  mournfully. 
"  Naw,  naw  ;  not  dis  day.     'Tis  to-day  'Thanase  was  kill'  ! " 

Mr.  Tarbox  relaxed  his  grasp,  and  Zosephine's  hand  escaped.  She  never  had 
betrayed  to  him  so  much  distress  as  filled  her  face  now.  "  De  man  what  kill'  him 
git  away.  You  t'ink  I  git  marrie'  while  dat  man  alive  ?  Ho-o-o  !  You  t'ink  I  let 
Marguerite  see  me  do  dat  ?  Ah,  naw  !  "  She  waved  him  away  and  turned  to  leave 
the  spot,  but  he  pressed  after,  and  she  paused  once  more.  .  .  . 

"  But  I  tell  you,  yes  !  you,  Josephine  !  I'm  poor  sort  enough  yet  ;  but  I  could 
have  done  things  once  that  I  can't  do  now.  There  was  a  time  when  if  some  miser- 
able outlaw  stood,  or  even  seemed,  maybe,  to  stand  between  me  and  my  chances 
for  happiness,  I  could  have  handed  him  over  to  human  justice,  so  called,  as  easy  as 
wink  ;  but  now  ?  No,  never  any  more  !  Josephine,  I  know  that  man  whose  picture 
I've  just  looked  at.  I  could  see  you  avenged.  I  could  lay  my  hands,  and  the 
hands  of  the  law,  on  him  inside  of  twenty-four  hours.  You  say  you  can't  marry 
till  the  law  has  laid  its  penalties  on  him,  or  at  least  while  he  lives  and  escapes 
them.  Is  that  right  ?  " 

Zosephine  had  set  her  face  to  oppose  his  words  only  with  unyielding  silence, 
but  the  answer  escaped  her  : 

"  Yass,  'tis  so.     'Tis  ri-ight  !  " 

"  No,  Josephine.  I  know  you  feel  as  if  it  were  ;  but  you  don't  think  so.  No, 
you  don't  ;  I  know  you  better  in  this  matter  than  you  know  yourself,  and  you  don't 
think  it's  right.  You  know  justice  belongs  to  the  State,  and  that  when  you  talk 
to  yourself  about  what  you  owe  to  justice  it  means  something  else,  that  you're  too 
sweet  and  good  to  give  the  right  name  to  and  still  want  it.  You  don't  want  it ;  you 
don't  want  revenge,  and  here's  the  proof;  for,  Josephine,  you  know,  and  I  know, 
that  if  I  —  even  without  speaking  —  with  no  more  than  one  look  of  the  eye  — 
should  offer  to  buy  your  favor  at  that  price,  even  ever  so  lawfully,  you'd  thank  me 
for  one  minute  and  then  loathe  me  to  the  end  of  your  days." 

Zosephine's  face  had  lost  its  hardness.  It  was  drawn  with  distress.  With  a 
gesture  of  repulsion  and  pain  she  exclaimed  : 

"  I  di'n'  mean  —  I  di'n'  mean  -      Ah  !  " 

"  What  ?  private  revenge  ?  No,  of  course  you  didn't  !  But  what  else  would  it 
be  ?  Oh,  Josephine!  don't  I  know  you  didn't  mean  it?  Didn't  I  tell  you  so? 
But  I  want  you  to  go  farther ;  I  want  you  to  put  away  forever  the  feeling.  I  want 
to  move  and  stand  between  you  and  it,  and  say  —  whatever  it  costs  me  to  say  it  — 
God  forbid  !  I  do  say  it  ;  I  say  it  now.  I  can't  say  more  ;  I  can't  say  less  ;  and 
somehow  —  I  don't  know  how  —  wherever  you  learned  it  —  I've  learned  it  from  you." 

Zosephine  opened  her  lips  to  refuse  ;  but  they  closed  and  tightened  upon  each 
other,  her  narrowed  eyes  sent  short  flashes  out  upon  his,  and  her  breath  came  and 
went  long  and  deep  without  sound.  But  at  his  last  words  she  saw  —  the 
strangest  thing — to  be  where  she  saw  it — a  tear  —  tears — standing  in  his 
eyes  ;  saw  them  a  moment ;  and  then  could  see  them  no  more  for  her  own.  Her 
lips  relaxed,  her  form  drooped,  she  lifted  her  face  to  reply,  but  her  mouth  twitched ; 
she  could  not  speak. 


MR.     TAR  BOX    AND    ZOSEPHINE. 


293 


"  I'm  not  so  foolish  as  I  look,"  he  said,  trying  to  smile  away  his  emotion.  "  If 
the  State  chose  to  hunt  him  out  and  put  him  to  trial  and  punishment,  I  don't  say 
I'd  stand  in  the  way  ;  that's  the  State's  business  ;  that's  for  the  public  safety.  But 
it's  too  late  —  you  and  Bonaventure  have  made  it  too  late —  for  me  to  help  any 
one,  least  of  all  the  one  I  love,  to  be  revenged."  He  saw  his  words  were  prevail- 
ing, and  followed  them  up.  "  Oh  !  you  don't  need  it  any  more  than  you  really  want 
it,  Josephine.  You  mustn't  ever  look  toward  it  again.  I  throw  myself  and  my 
love  across  the  path.  Don't  walk  over  us.  Take  my  hand  ;  give  me  yours  ;  come 
another  way  ;  and  if  you'll  let  such  a  poor  excuse  for  a  teacher  and  guide  help  you, 
I'll  help  you  all  I  can  to  learn  to  say  '  Forgive  us  our  trespasses.'  You  can  begin 
now,  by  forgiving  me.  I  may  have  thrown  away  my  last  chance  with  you,  but  I 
can't  help  it  ;  it's  my  love  that  spoke.  And  if  I  have  spoiled  all,  and  if  for  the 
tears  you're  shedding  I've  got  to  pay  with  the  greatest  disappointment  of  my  life, 
still  I've  had  the  glory  and  the  sanctification  of  loving  you.  If  I  must  say,  I  can 
say, 

'  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all.' 

Must  I  ?     Are  you  going  to  make  me  say  that  ?  " 

Zosephine,  still  in  tears,  silently  and  with  drooping  head  pushed  her  way  across 
the  stile  and  left  him  standing  on  the  other  side.  He  sent  one  pleading  word  after 
her: 

"  Isn't  it  most  too  late  to  go  the  rest  of  the  way  alone  ? " 

She  turned,  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  for  an  instant,  and  nodded.  In  a  twinkling 
he  was  at  her  side.  She  glanced  at  him  again  and  said  quite  contentedly  : 

"  Yass  ;  'tis  so,"  and  they  went  the  short  remnant  of  the  way  together. 

GEORGE  W.  CABLE. 


AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    A    PANTHER. 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  A  PANTHER. 

As  soon  as  I  had  effected  my  dangerous  passage,  I  screened  myself  behind  a 
cliff,  and  gave  myself  up  to  reflection.  While  occupied  with  these  reflections,  my 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  opposite  steeps.  The  tops  of  the  trees,  waving  to  and 
fro  in  the  wildest  commotion,  and  their  trunks  occasionally  bending  to  the  blast, 
which,  in  these  lofty  regions,  blew  with  a  violence  unknown  in  the  tracts  below, 
exhibited  an  awful  spectacle.  At  length  my  attention  was  attracted  by  the  trunk 
which  lay  across  the  gulf,  and  which  I  had  converted  into  a  bridge.  I  perceived 
that  it  had  already  swerved  somewhat  from  its  original  position  ;  that  every  blast 
broke  or  loosened  some  of  the  fibers  by  which  its  roots  were  connected  with  the 
opposite  bank ;  and  that,  if  the  storm  did  not  speedily  abate,  there  was  imminent 
danger  of  its  being  torn  from  the  rock  and  precipitated  into  the  chasm.  Thus  my 
retreat  would  be  cut  off,  and  the  evils  from  which  I  was  endeavoring  to  rescue 
another  would  be  experienced  by  myself. 

I  believed  my  destiny  to  hang  upon  the  expedition  with  which  I  should  recross 
this  gulf.  The  moments  that  were  spent  in  these  deliberations  were  critical,  and 
I  shuddered  to  observe  that  the  trunk  was  held  in  its  place  by  one  or  two  fibers, 
which  were  already  stretched  almost  to  breaking. 

To  pass  along  the  trunk,  rendered  slippery  by  the  wet  and  unsteadfast  by  the 
wind,  was  eminently  dangerous.  To  maintain  my  hold  in  passing,  in  defiance  of 
the  whirlwind,  required  the  most  vigorous  exertions.  For  this  end,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  discommode  myself  of  my  cloak  and  of  the  volume  which  I  carried  in  the 
pocket  of  my  coat. 

Just  as  I  had  disposed  of  these  encumbrances,  and  had  risen  from  my  seat,  my 
attention  was  again  called  to  the  opposite  steep  by  the  most  unwelcome  object  that 
at  this  time  could  possibly  occur.  Something  was  perceived  moving  among  the 
bushes  and  rocks,  which,  for  a  time,  I  hoped  was  nothing  more  than  a  raccoon  or 
opossum,  but  which  presently  appeared  to  be  a  panther.  His  gray  coat,  extended 
claws,  fiery  eyes,  and  a  cry  which  he  at  that  moment  uttered,  and  which,  by  its 
resemblance  to  the  human  voice,  is  peculiarly  terrific,  denoted  him  to  be  the  most 
ferocious  and  untamable  of  that  detested  race.  The  industry  of  our  hunters  has 
nearly  banished  animals  of  prey  from  these  precincts.  The  fastnesses  of  Norwalk, 
however,  could  not  but  afford  refuge  to  some  of  them.  Of  late  I  had  met  them  so 
rarely  that  my  fears  were  seldom  alive,  and  I  trod  without  caution  the  ruggedest 
and  most  solitary  haunts.  Still,  however,  I  had  seldom  been  unfurnished  in  my 
rambles  with  the  means  of  defense. 

The  unfrequency  with  which  I  had  lately  encountered  this  foe,  and  the  encum- 
brance of  provision,  made  me  neglect,  on  this  occasion,  to  bring  with  me  my  usual 
arms.  The  beast  that  was  now  before  me,  when  stimulated  by  hunger,  was  accus- 
tomed to  assail  whatever  could  provide  him  with  a  banquet  of  blood.  He  would 
set  upon  the  man  and  the  deer  with  equal  and  irresistible  ferocity.  His  sagacity 


AN    ENCOUNTER     WITH    A     PANTHER. 


295 


was  equal  to  his  strength,  and  he  seemed  able  to  discover  when  his  antagonist  was 
armed  and  prepared  for  defense. 

My  past  experience  enabled  me  to  estimate  the  full  extent  of  my  danger.  He 
sat  on  the  brow  of  the  steep,  eying  the  bridge,  and  apparently  deliberating  whether 
he  should  cross  it.  It  was  probable  that  he  had  scented  my  footsteps  thus  far, 
and,  should  he  pass  over,  his  vigilance  could  scarcely  fail  of  detecting  my  asylum. 

Should  he  retain  his  present  station,  my  danger  was  scarcely  lessened.  To 
pass  over  in  the  face  of  a  famished  tiger  was  only  to  rush  upon  my  fate.  The  fall- 
ing of  the  trunk,  which  had  lately  been  so  anxiously  deprecated,  was  now  with  no 
less  solicitude  desired.  Every  new  gust,  I  hoped,  would  tear  asunder  its  remaining 
bands,  and,  by  cutting  off  all  communication  between  the  opposite  steeps,  place 
me  in  security.  My  hopes,  however,  were  destined  to  be  frustrated.  The  fibers 
of  the  prostrate  tree  were  obstinately  tenacious  of  their  hold,  and  presently  the 
animal  scrambled  down  the  rock  and  proceeded  to  cross  it. 

Of  all  kinds  of  death,  that  which  now  menaced  me  was  the  most  abhorred. 
To  die  by  disease  or  by  the  hand  of  a  fellow-creature  was  propitious  and  lenient  in 
comparison  with  being  rent  to  pieces  by  the  fangs  of  this  savage.  To  perish  in 
this  obscure  retreat  by  means  so  impervious  to  the  anxious  curiosity  of  my  friends, 
to  lose  my  portion  of  existence  by  so  untoward  and  ignoble  a  destiny,  was  insup- 
portable. I  bitterly  deplored  my  rashness  in  coming  hither  unprovided  for  an 
encounter  like  this. 

The  evil  of  my  present  circumstances  consisted  chiefly  in  suspense.  My  death 
was  unavoidable,  but  my  imagination  had  leisure  to  torment  itself  by  anticipations. 
One  foot  of  the  savage  was  slowly  and  cautiously  moved  after  the  other.  He 
struck  his  claws  so  deeply  into  the  bark  that  they  were  with  difficulty  withdrawn. 
At  length  he  leaped  upon  the  ground.  We  were  now  separated  by  an  interval 
of  scarcely  eight  feet.  To  leave  the  spot  where  I  crouched  was  impossible.  Be- 
hind and  beside  me  the  cliff  rose  perpendicularly,  and  before  me  was  this  grim  and 
terrible  visage.  I  shrunk  still  closer  to  the  ground,  and  closed  my  eyes. 

From  this  pause  of  horror  I  was  aroused  by  the  noise  occasioned  by  a  second 
spring  of  the  animal.  He  leaped  into  the  pit  in  which  I  had  so  deeply  regretted 
that  I  had  not  taken  refuge,  and  disappeared.  My  rescue  was  so  sudden,  and  so 
much  beyond  my  belief  or  my  hope,  that  I  doubted  for  a  moment  whether  my 
senses  did  not  deceive  me.  This  opportunity  of  escape  was  not  to  be  neglected. 
I  left  my  place  and  scrambled  over  the  trunk  with  a  precipitation  which  had  like 
to  have  proved  fatal.  The  tree  groaned  and  shook  under  me,  the  wind  blew  with 
unexampled  violence,  and  I  had  scarcely  reached  the  opposite  steep  when  the  roots 
were  severed  from  the  rock,  and  the  whole  fell  thundering  to  the  bottom  of  the 
chasm. 

My  trepidations  were  not  speedily  quieted.  I  looked  back  with  wonder  on  my 
hairbreadth  escape,  and  on  that  singular  concurrence  of  events  which  had  placed 
me  in  so  short  a  period  in  absolute  security.  Had  the  trunk  fallen  a  moment 
earlier,  I  should  have  been  imprisoned  on  the  hill  or  thrown  headlong.  Had  its 
fall  been  delayed  another  moment,  I  should  have  been  pursued  ;  for  the  beast  now 


296  TO    A     CHILD. 

issued  from  his  den,  and  testified  his  surprise  and  disappointment  by  tokens  the 
sight  of  which  made  my  blood  run  cold. 

He  saw  me,  and  hastened  to  the  verge  of  the  chasm.  He  squatted  on  his  hind 
legs,  and  assumed  the  attitude  of  one  preparing  to  leap.  My  consternation  was 
excited  afresh  by  these  appearances.  It  seemed  at  first  as  if  the  rift  was  too  wide 
for  any  power  of  muscles  to  carry  him  in  safety  over  ;  but  I  knew  the  unpar- 
alleled agility  of  this  animal,  and  that  his  experience  had  made  him  a  better  judge 
of  the  practicability  of  this  exploit  than  I  was. 

Still  there  was  hope  that  he  would  relinquish  this  design  as  desperate.  This 
hope  was  quickly  at  an  end.  He  sprung,  and  his  fore-legs  touched  the  verge  of 
the  rock  on  which  I  stood.  In  spite  of  vehement  exertions,  however,  the  surface 
was  too  smooth  and  too  hard  to  allow  him  to  make  good  his  hold.  He  fell,  and  a 
piercing  cry  uttered  below,  showed  that  nothing  had  obstructed  his  descent  to  the 
bottom. 

CHARLES  BROCKDEN  BROWN. 


TO     A     CHILD. 


So  you  are  at  Sandgate  !     Of  course,  wishing-for  your  old  play-fellow,  M 


H  -  -  (he  can  play  —  it's  work  to  me),  to  help  you  to  make  little  puddles  in  the 
Sand,  and  swing  on  the  Gate.  But  perhaps  there  are  no  sand  and  gate  at  Sandgate, 
which,  in  that  case,  nominally  tells  us  a  fib.  But  there  must  be  little  crabs  some- 
where, which  you  can  catch,  if  you  are  nimble  enough,  so  like  spiders,  I  wonder 
they  do  not  make  webs.  The  large  crabs  are  scarcer. 

If  you. do  catch  a  big  one  with  strong  claws  — and  like  experiments,  — you  can 
shut  him  up  in  a  cupboard  with  a  loaf  of  sugar,  and  you  can  see  whether  he  will 
break  it  up  with  his  nippers.  Besides  crabs,  I  used  to  find  jelly-fish  on  the  beach, 
made,  it  seemed  to  me,  of  sea-calves'  feet,  and  no  sherry. 

The  mermaids  eat  them,  I  suppose,  at  their  wet  water-parties,  or  salt  soirees. 

I  suppose  you  never  gather  any  sea-flowers,  but  only  sea-weeds.  The  truth  is, 
Mr.  David  Jones  never  rises  from  his  bed,  and  so  has  a  garden  full  of  weeds,  like 
Dr.  Watts'  Sluggard.  .  .  . 

I  have  heard  that  you  bathe  in  the  sea,  which  is  very  refreshing,  but  it  requires 
care ;  for  if  you  stay  under  water  too  long  you  may  come  up  a  mermaid,  who  is 
only  half  a  lady,  with  a  fish's  tail,  —  which  she  can  boil  if  she  likes.  You  had  bet- 
ter try  this  with  your  doll,  whether  it  turns  her  into  half  a  "  dollfin." 

I  hope  you  like  the  sea.  I  always  did  when  I  was  a  child,  which  was  about  two 
years  ago.  Sometimes  it  makes  such  a  fizzing  and  foaming,  I  wonder  some  of  our 
London  cheats  do  not  bottle  it  up,  and  sell  it  for  ginger-pop. 

Sometime  ago  exactly,  there  used  to  be,  about  the  part  of  the  coast  where  you 


TO    A     CHILL*. 


297 


are,  large  white  birds  with  black-tipped  wings,  that  went  flying  and  screaming  over 
the  sea,  and  now  and  then  plunged  down  into  the  water  after  a  fish.  Perhaps  they 
catch  their  sprats  now  with  nets  or  hooks  and  lines.  Do  you  ever  see  such  birds  ? 
We  used  to  call  them  "  gulls,'  —  but  they  didn't  mind  it !  Do  you  ever  see  any 
boats  or  vessels  ?  And  don't  you  wish,  when  you  see  a  ship,  that  somebody  was  a 
sea-captain  instead  of  a  doctor,  that  he  might  bring  you  home  a  pet  lion,  or  calf 
elephant,  ever  so  many  parrots,  or  a  monkey,  from  foreign  parts  ?  I  knew  a  little 
girl  who  was  promised  a  baby  whale  by  her  sailor  brother,  and  who  blubbered 
because  he  did  not  bring  it.  I  suppose  there  are  no  whales  at  Sandgate,  but  you 
might  find  a  seal  about  the  beach  ;  or,  at  least,  a  stone  for  one.  The  sea  stones  are 
not  pretty  when  they  are  dry,  but  look  beautiful  when  they  are  wet,  and  we  can 
always  keep  sucking  them  ! 

If  you  can  find  one,  pray  pick  me  up  a  pebble  for  a  seal.  I  prefer  the  red 
sort,  like  Mrs.  Jenkins'  brooch  and  ear-rings,  which  she  calls  "  red  chamelion." 
Well,  how  happy  you  must  be  !  Childhood  is  such  a  joyous,  merry  time  ;  and  I 
often  wish  I  was  two  or  three  children  !  But  I  suppose  I  can't  be  ;  or  else  I 
would  be  Jeanie,  and  May,  and  Dunnie  Elliot.  And  wouldn't  I  pull  off  my  three 
pairs  of  shoes  and  socks,  and  go  paddling  in  the  sea  up  to  my  six  knees  !  And  oh ! 
how  I  could  climb  up  the  downs,  and  roll  down  the  ups  on  my  three  backs  and 
stomachs !  .  .  . 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


298  THE    PREMIER     GLADSTONE. 


THE     PREMIER     GLADSTONE. 

CARLTON  HOUSE  TERRACE  is  one  of  the  historic  spots  in  London.  It  is  a 
long,  stately  row  of  mansions  flanking  St.  James  Park.  At  the  foot  of  broad 
Waterloo  Place  stands  the  lofty  column  to  the  Duke  of  York.  As  he  died  heavily 
in  debt,  the  wags  say  "  The  Duke  was  put  up  on  top  of  the  column  to  get  him  out 
of  the  reach  of  his  creditors."  In  the  second  or  third  house  from  the  monument 
resides  Britain's  ruler,  the  Premier  Gladstone.  Technically,  the  ruler  of  the  realm 
dwells  in  Windsor  Palace.  But  Major  Jack  Downing  tells  us  that  when  General 
Jackson  —  on  his  visit  to  Downingville — got  tired  of  shaking  hands  with  the 
crowd,  he  (the  Major)  hid  behind  him,  and  poking  his  arm  under  Old  Hickory's 
shoulder,  he  "  shuck  hands  for  the  Gineral."  So  the  hand  of  royalty  in  England 
is  really  the  hand  of  William  E.  Gladstone  slipped  under  the  regal  robes.  I  had 
the  honor  of  two  very  delightful  interviews  with  the  Premier  last  summer.  As  the 
"Alabama  question"  was  just  at  its  most  exciting  point,  Mr.  Gladstone  was  quite 
ready  to  converse  freely  with  any  American  who  was  supposed  to  be  familiar  with 
the  state  of  public  sentiment  on  this  side  of  the  water.  He  very  kindly  invited  me 
to  visit  him.  He  received  me  with  cordial  freedom,  and  in  the  half-hour's  chat  he 
opened  his  mind  to  me  with  that  transparent  sincerity  which  belongs  to  the  character 
of  a  Christian  statesman.  As  I  rose  to  leave,  saying  to  him,  "  Your  time  belongs  to 
the  British  Empire  and  not  to  an  American  traveler,"  he  very  cordially  said,  "  Come 
and  breakfast  with  me  on  Thursday."  Breakfast  is  the  familiar  meal  in  English 
home-life,  as  "  tea-drinking  "  is  with  us.  I  went  at  ten  o'clock  on  a  June  morning, 
and  found  the  Premier  standing  out  on  his  rear  balcony,  overlooking  cool,  verdant 
St.  James  Park.  Mr.  Gladstone  is  in  excellent  preservation  ;  his  walk  is  alert,  and 
his  broad  shoulders  have  never  stooped  under  the  load  of  official  responsibilities. 
One  secret  of  his  vigorous  health  is  that  he  is  a  capital  sleeper.  "  I  never,"  said 
he  to  me,  "allow  the  cares  of  State  to  get  inside  of  my  bed-chamber  door."  lie 
says  that  he  does  not  remember  that  he  was  ever  kept  awake  for  half  an  hour  by 
anxiety  but  once.  And  that  was  at  the  country-seat  of  his  brother-in-law,  Lord 
Lyttetton,  where  he  had  been  chopping  down  a  tree  just  at  twilight.  He  did  not 
quite  finish  the  job,  and  the  fear  that  the  tree  might  blow  down  before  morning 
worried  him  out  of  a  little  sleep.  I  am  afraid  that  President  Lincoln  knew  but 
little  of  such  quiet  slumbers  during  his  stormy  administration. 

At  the  breakfast-table  of  Mr.  Gladstone  I  met  the  venerable  Dean  Ramsay,  of 
Edinburgh,  and  the  Rev.  Newman  Hall,  who  is  on  quite  intimate  terms  of  friend- 
ship with  the  Premier.  Mrs.  Gladstone  —  who  was  the  daughter  of  a  substantial 
country  gentleman,  and  with  whom  Mr.  Gladstone  fell  in  love  in  his  student  days  — 
is  a  warm-hearted  lady,  whose  beauty  of  character  and  manners  surpass  her  beauty 
of  person.  She  is  an  untiring  worker  in  several  schemes  of  active  philanthropy. 
A  son  was  at  the  table,  and  a  noble-looking  daughter.  Another  son  is  in  the 
Church  of  England  pulpit.  And  what  a  charming  hour  of  chat  was  that  at  the 


THE    FOURTH    OF  JULY. 


299 


Prime  Minister's  breakfast  !  A  package  of  private  despatches  from  the  Geneva 
Arbitrators  was  quietly  laid  aside  unopened  until  the  coffee  and  toast  and  straw- 
berries were  disposed  of.  The  Presidential  campaign  in  America  seemed  to  in- 
terest Mr.  Gladstone  deeply,  and  he  inquired,  "  Have  you  read  Mr.  Sumner's  speech 
against  the  President  ?  It  is  an  extraordinary  speech.  If  his  charges  are  unjust, 
they  ought  never  to  have  been  made.  If  they  are  just,  it  seems  to  me  that  im- 
peachment is  inevitable.  It  would  be  thought  so  here.  We  do  not  quite  under- 
stand your  freedom  of  Congressional  criticisms." 

But  politics  were  soon  ruled  out  for  a  playful  discussion  of  American  humor, 
especially  of  the  negro  type.  Mr.  Gladstone  enjoyed  hugely  some  stories  of  plan 
tation  preaching,  and  said  afterwards  that  he  had  not  laughed  so  heartily  in  many 
a  day.  Negro  wit  (like  negro  music)  is  so  indigenous  to  our  soil  that  it  is  fresher 
to  foreign  ears  than  to  our  own.  As  the  hour  came  for  a  morning  session  of  Par- 
liament, we  withdrew.  Mr.  Gladstone's  last  words  to  me  were,  "  I  cannot  tell  what 
Providence  may  order,  but  no  power  on  earth  can  hinder  the  peaceful  settlement 
of  our  controversy  with  your  country,  and  the  complete  triumph  of  the  treaty." 
He  was  a  true  prophet.  And  let  us  rejoice  that  during  all  that  long  controversy, 
the  sagacious  brain,  and  the  noble  Christian  heart  of  William  E.  Gladstone,  guided 
the  diplomacy  of  the  British  Empire. 

THEODORE  L.  CUYLER. 


THE     FOURTH     OF    JULY. 

YESTERDAY  the  greatest  question  was  decided  which  ever  was  debated  in 
America,  and  a  greater,  perhaps,  never  was  nor  will  be  decided  among  men.  A 
resolution  was  passed,  without  one  dissenting  colony,  "that  these  United  .Colonies 
are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be,  free  and  independent  States,  and  as  such  they  have, 
and  of  right  ought  to  have,  full  power  to  make  war,  conclude  peace,  establish  com- 
merce, and  to  do  all  other  acts  and  things  which  other  States  may  rightfully  do." 
You  will  see,  in  a  few  days,  a  Declaration  setting  forth  the  causes  which  have  im- 
pelled us  to  this  mighty  revolution,  and  the  reasons  which  will  justify  it  in  the 
sight  of  God  and  man.  A  plan  of  confederation  will  be  taken  up  in  a  few  days. 

When  I  look  back  to  the  year  1761,  and  recollect  the  argument  concerning  writs 
of  assistance  in  the  superior  court,  which  I  have  hitherto  considered  as  the  com- 
mencement of  this  controversy  between  Great  Britain  and  America,  and  run 
through  the  whole  period,  from  that  time  to  this,  and  recollect  the  series  of  politi- 
cal events,  the  chain  of  causes  and  effects,  I  am  surprised  at  the  suddenness  as 
well  as  greatness  of  this  revolution.  Britain  has  been  filled  with  folly,  and  America 
with  wisdom  ;  at  least,  this  is  my  judgment.  Time  must  determine.  It  is  the 


300  THE    PRIVATE     CHARACTER     OF     WEBSTER. 

will  of  Heaven  that  the  two  countries  should  be  sundered  forever.  It  may  be 
the  will  of  Heaven  that  America  should  suffer  calamities  still  more  wasting,  and 
distresses  yet  more  dreadful.  If  this  is  to  be  the  case,  it  will  have  this  good  effect 
at  least.  It  will  inspire  us  with  many  virtues  which  we  have  not,  and  correct 
many  errors,  follies,  and  vices  which  threaten  to  disturb,  dishonor,  and  destroy  us. 
The  furnace  of  affliction  produces  refinement  in  states  as  well  as  individuals.  And 
the  new  governments  we  are  assuming  in  every  part  will  require  a  purification  from 
our  vices,  and  an  augmentation  of  our  virtues,  or  they  will  be  no  blessings.  The 
people  will  have  unbounded  power,  and  the  people  are  extremely  addicted  to  cor- 
ruption and  venality,  as  well  as  the  great.  But  I  must  submit  all  my  hopes  and 
fears  to  an  overruling  Providence,  in  which,  unfashionable  as  the  faith  may  be,  I 
firmly  believe. 

JOHN  ADAMS. 


THE     PRIVATE     CHARACTER     OF     WEBSTER. 

To  appreciate  the  variety  and  accuracy  of  his  knowledge,  and  even  the  true 
compass  of  his  mind,  you  must  have  had  some  familiarity  with  his  friendly  written 
correspondence,  and  you  must  have  conversed  with  him  with  some  degree  of  free- 
dom. There,  more  than  in  senatorial  or  forensic  debate,  gleamed  the  true  riches 
of  his  genius,  as  well  as  the  goodness  of  his  large  heart,  and  the  kindness  of  his 
noble  nature.  There,  with  no  longer  a  great  part  to  discharge,  no  longer  compelled 
to  weigh  and  measure  propositions,  to  tread  the  dizzy  heights  which  part  the  an- 
tagonisms of  the  Constitution,  to  put  aside  allusions  and  illustrations  which 
crowded  on  his  mind  in  action,  but  which  the  dignity  of  a  public  appearance  had 
to  reject  ;  in  the  confidence  of  hospitality  (which  ever  he  dispensed  as  a  prince 
who  also  was  a  friend),  his  memory  —  one  of  his  most  extraordinary  faculties,  quite 
in  proportion  to  all  the  rest  —  swept  free  over  the  readings  and  labors  of  more  than 
half  a  century  ;  and  then,  allusions,  direct  and  ready  quotations,  a  passing  ma- 
ture criticism,  sometimes  only  a  recollection  of  the  mere  emotions  which  a  glorious 
passage  or  interesting  event  had  once  excited,  darkening  for  a  moment  the  face  and 
filling  the  eye,  often  an  instructive  exposition  of  a  current  maxim  of  philosophy  or 
politics,  the  history  of  an  invention,  the  recital  of  some  incident  casting  a  new 
light  on  some  transaction  or  some  institution, — this  flow  of  unstudied  conversa- 
tion, quite  as  remarkable  as  any  other  exhibition  of  his  mind,  better  than  any  other, 
perhaps,  at  once  opened  an  unexpected  glimpse  of  his  various  acquirements,  and 
gave  you  to  experience,  delightedly,  that  the  "  mild  sentiments  have  their  eloquence 
as  well  as  the  stormy  passions." 

There  must  be  added,  next,  the  element  of  an  impressive  character,  inspiring 
regard,  trust,  and  admiration,  not  unmingled  with  love.  It  had,  I  think,  intrinsi- 


THE    PRIVATE     CHARACTER     OF     WEBSTER.  301 

cally  a  charm  such  as  belongs  only  to  a  good,  noble,  and  beautiful  nature.  In  its 
combination  with  so  much  fame,  so  much  force  of  will,  and  so  much  intellect,  it 
filled  and  fascinated  the  imagination  and  heart.  It  was  affectionate  in  childhood 
and  youth,  and  it  was  more  than  ever  so  in  the  few  last  months  of  his  long  life. 

It  is  the  universal  testimony  that  he  gave  to  his  parents  in  largest  measure, 
honor,  love,  obedience  ;  that  he  eagerly  appropriated  the  first  means  which  he  could 
command  to  relieve  the  father  from  the  debts  contracted  to  educate  his  brother 
and  himself  ;  that  he  selected  his  first  place  of  professional  practice  that  he  might 
soothe  the  coming  on  of  his  old  age  ;  that  all  through  life  he  neglected  no  occasion 
—  sometimes  when  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  friend,  alone,  with  faltering  voice, 
sometimes  in  the  presence  of  great  assemblies,  where  the  tide  of  general  emotion 
made  it  graceful  —  to  express  his  "  affectionate  veneration  of  him  who  reared  and 
defended  the  log  cabin  in  which  his  elder  brothers  and  sisters  were  born,  against 
savage  violence  and  destruction,  cherished  all  the  domestic  virtues  beneath  its  roof, 
and  through  the  fire  and  blood  of  some  years  of  revolutionary  war,  shrank  from  no 
danger,  no  toil,  no  sacrifice,  to  serve  his  country,  and  to  raise  his  children  to  a  con- 
dition better  than  his  own." 

Equally  beautiful  was  his  love  of  all  his  kindred  and  all  his  friends.  When  I 
hear  him  accused  of  selfishness,  and  a  cold,  bad  nature,  I  recall  him  lying  sleepless 
all  night,  not  without  tears  of  boyhood,  conferring  with  Ezekiel  how  the  darling 
desire  of  both  hearts  should  be  compassed,  and  he,  too,  admitted  to  the  precious 
privileges  of  education  ;  courageously  pleading  the  cause  of  both  brothers  in  the 
morning  ;  prevailing  by  the  wise  and  discerning  affection  of  the  mother ;  suspend- 
ing his  studies  of  the  law,  and  registering  deeds  and  teaching  school  to  earn  the 
means,  for  both,  of  availing  themselves  of  the  opportunity  which  the  parental  self- 
sacrifice  had  placed  within  their  reach ;  loving  him  through  life,  mourning  him 
when  dead,  with  a  love  and  a  sorrow  very  wonderful,  passing  the  sorrow  of  woman  ; 
I  recall  the  husband,  the  father  of  the  living  and  of  the  early  departed,  the  friend, 
the  counsellor  of  many  years,  and  my  heart  grows  too  full  and  liquid  for  the  refu- 
tation of  words. 

His  affectionate  nature,  craving  ever  friendship,  as  well  as  the  presence  of  kin- 
dred blood,  diffused  itself  through  all  his  private  life,  gave  sincerity  to  all  his  hos- 
pitalities, kindness  to  his  eye,  warmth  to  the  pressure  of  his  hand  ;  made  his  great- 
ness and  genius  unbend  themselves  to  the  playfulness  of  childhood,  flowed  out  in 
graceful  memories  indulged  of  the  past  or  the  dead,  of  incidents  when  life  was 
young  and  promised  to  be  happy,  —  gave  generous  sketches  of  his  rivals,  —  the 
high  contention  now  hidden  by  the  handful  of  earth,  —  hours  passed  fifty  years  ago 
with  great  authors,  recalled  for  the  vernal  emotions  which  then  they  made  to  live 
and  revel  in  the  soul.  And  from  these  conversations  of  friendship,  no  man — no 
man,  old  or  young  —  went  away  to  remember  one  word  of  profaneness,  one  allusion 
of  indelicacy,  one  impure  thought,  one  unbelieving  suggestion,  one  doubt  cast  on 
the  reality  of  virtue,  of  patriotism,  of  enthusiasm,  of  the  progress  of  man,  —  one 
doubt  cast  on  righteousness,  or  temperance,  or  judgment  to  come. 

Every  one  of  his  tastes  and  recreations  announced  the  same  type  of  character. 


302 


THE     SABBATH. 


His  love  of  agriculture,  of  sports  in  the  open  air,  of  the  outward  world  in  starlight 
and  storms,  and  sea  and  boundless  wilderness,  —  partly  a  result  of  the  influences 
of  the  first  fourteen  years  of  his  life,  perpetuated  like  its  other  affections  and  its 
other  lessons  of  a  mother's  love,  —  the  Psalms,  the  Bible,  the  stories  of  the  wars, 
-  partly  the  return  of  an  unsophisticated  and  healthful  nature,  tiring  for  a  space 
of  the  idle  business  of  political  life,  its  distinctions,  its  artificialities,  to  employ- 
ments, to  sensations  which  interest  without  agitating  the  universal  race  alike,  as 
God  has  framed  it,  in  which  one  feels  himself  only  a  man,  fashioned  from  the 
earth,  set  to  till  it,  appointed  to  return  to  it,  yet  made  in  the  image  of  his  Maker, 
and  with  a  spirit  that  shall  not  die,  — all  displayed  a  man  whom  the  most  various 
intercourse  with  the  world,  the  longest  career  of  strife  and  honors,  the  conscious- 
ness of  intellectual  supremacy,  the  coming  in  of  a  wide  fame,  constantly  enlarging, 
left,  as  he  was  at  first,  natural,  simple,  manly,  genial,  kind. 

RUFUS  CHOATE. 


THE     SABBATH. 

I  FEEL  by  experience  the  eternal  obligation,  because  of  the  eternal  necessity,  of 
the  Sabbath.  The  soul  withers  without  it  ;  it  thrives  in  proportion  to  the  fidelity 
of  its  observance.  Nay,  I  can  believe  the  stern  rigor  of  the  Puritan  Sabbath  had  a 
grand  effect  upon  the  soul.  Fancy  a  man  thrown  in  upon  himself,  with  no  per- 
mitted music,  no  relaxation,  nor  literature,  nor  secular  conversation  —  nothing  but 
his  Bible,  his  own  soul  and  God's  silence  !  What  hearts  of  iron  this  system  must 
have  made.  How  different  from  our  stuffed  arm-chair  religion  and  "  gospel  of  com- 
fort !  "  as  if  to  be  made  comfortable  were  the  great  end  of  religion.  I  am  per- 
suaded, however,  that  the  Sabbath  must  rest  not  on  an  enactment,  but  on  the 
necessities  of  human  nature.  It  is  necessary  not  because  it  is  commanded  ;  but  it 
is  commanded  because  it  is  necessary.  If  the  Bible  says,  "  Eat  the  herb  of  the 
field,"  self-sustenance  does  not  become  a  duty  in  consequence  of  the  enactment, 
but  the  enactment  is  only  a  statement  of  the  law  of  human  nature.  And  so  with 
the  Sabbath.  .  .  .  As  to  the  enactment,  a  greater  part  is  indisputably  dis- 
pensed with.  The  day,  the  mode  of  observance,  the  manner  of  computing  twenty- 
four  hours  from  twelve  to  twelve,  or  from  sunset  to  sunset.  If  these  be  ceremonial, 
who  is  to  prove  that  the  number  one  in  seven  is  not  ceremonial,  too,  and  that  it 
might  not  be  changed  for  one  in  ten  ?  If  all  this  is  got  rid  of,  and  "  no  manner  of 
work  "  is  construed  to  permit  hot  dinners  and  fly-driving  on  the  Sabbath,  then  it 
is  only  an  arbitrary  distinction  to  call  any  other  part,  or  even  the  whole  of  it,  of 
moral  or  eternal  instead  of  ceremonial  obligation.  You  cannot  base  it  on  a  law ; 
but  you  can  show  that  the  law  was  based  on  an  eternal  fitness.  There  I  think  it 
never  can  be  dislodged. 

FREDERICK  W.   ROBERTSON. 


JOAN.  303 


JOAN. 

IT  was  a  retired  nook  where  evergreens  were  growing,  and  where  the  violet 
fragrance  was  more  powerful  than  anywhere  else,  for  the  rich,  moist  earth  of  one 
bed  was  blue  with  them.  Joan  was  standing  near  these  violets,  —  he  saw  her  as  he 
turned  into  the  walk,  —  a  motionless  figure  in  heavy  brown  drapery. 

She  heard  him  and  started  from  her  reverie.  In  another  half-dozen  steps  he 
was  at  her  side. 

"  Don't  look  as  if  I  had  alarmed  you,"  he  said.  "  It  seems  such  a  poor  begin- 
ning to  what  I  have  come  to  say." 

Her  hand  trembled  so  that  one  or  two  of  the  loose  violets  she  held  fell  at  his 
feet.  She  had  a  cluster  of  their  fragrant  bloom  fastened  in  the  full  knot  of  her 
hair.  The  dropping  of  the  flowers  seemed  to  help  her  to  recover  herself.  She 
drew  back  a  little,  a  shade  of  pride  in  her  gesture,  though  the  color  dyed  her 
cheeks  and  her  eyes  were  downcast. 

"  I  cannot  —  I  cannot  listen,"  she  said. 

The  slight  change  which  he  noted  in  her  speech  touched  him  unutterably.  It 
was  not  a  very  great  change;  she  spoke  slowly  and  uncertainly,  and  the  quaint 
Northern  burr  still  held  its  own,  and  here  and  there  a  word  betrayed  her  effort. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  you  will  listen.  You  gave  me  back  my  life.  You  will  not 
make  it  worthless.  If  you  cannot  love  me"  -  his  voice  shaking —  "  it  would  have 
been  less  cruel  to  have  left  me  where  you  found  me,  — a  dead  man,  — for  whom 
all  pain  was  over." 

He  stopped.  The  woman  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  She  raised  her  eyes 
from  the  ground  and  looked  at  him,  catching  her  breath. 

"  Yo'  are  askin'  me  to  be  yore  wife  !  "  she  said.     "  Me  !  " 

"  I  love  you,"  he  answered.     "  You,  and  no  other  woman  !  " 

She  waited  a  moment  and  then  turned  suddenly  away  from  him,  and  leaned 
against  the  tree  under  which  they  were  standing,  resting  her  face  upon  her  arm. 
Her  hand  clung  among  the  ivy  leaves  and  crushed  them.  Her  old  speech  came 
back  in  the  quick,  hushed  cry  she  uttered.  "  I  conna  turn  yo'  fro'  me,"  she  said. 
" Oh !  I  conna !  " 

"  Thank  God  !     Thank  God  !  "  he  cried. 

He  would  have  caught  her  to  his  breast,  but  she  held  up  her  hand  to  restrain 
him. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said,  "  not  yet.  I  conna  turn  you  fro'  me,  but  theer's  summat 
I  must  ask.  Give  me  th'  time  to  make  myself  worthy  —  give  me  th'  time  to  work 
an'  strive ;  be  patient  with  me,  until  th'  day  comes  when  I  can  come  to  yo'  an' 
know  I  need  not  shame  yo'.  They  say  I  am  na  slow  at  learnin'  —  wait  and  see 
how  I  can  work  for  th'  mon  —  for  th'  mon  I  love." 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT. 


A     QUESTION    OF    LOVING, 


A     QUESTION     OF     LOVING. 

WHEN  Gabriel  had  gone  about  two  hundred  yards  along  the  down,  he  heard  a 
"  hoi-hoi  !  "  uttered  behind  him,  in  a  piping  note  of  more  treble  quality  than  that 
in  which  the  exclamation  usually  embodies  itself  when  shouted  across  a  field.  He 
looked  round,  and  saw  a  girl  racing  after  him,  waving  a  white  handkerchief. 

Oak  stood  still  —  and  the  runner  drew  nearer.  It  was  Bathsheba  Everdene. 
Gabriel's  color  deepened  ;  hers  was  already  deep,  not,  as  it  appeared,  from  emotion, 
but  from  running. 

"  Farmer  Oak  —  I  "  —  she  said,  pausing  for  want  of  breath,  pulling  up  in  front 
of  him  with  a  slanted  face,  and  putting  her  hand  to  her  side. 

"  I  have  just  called  to  see  you,"  said  Gabriel,  pending  her  further  speech. 

"  Yes  —  I  know  that,"  she  said,  panting  like  a  robin,  her  face  moist  and  red 
with  her  exertions,  like  a  peony  petal,  before  the  sun  dries  off  the  dew,  "I  didn't 
know  you  had  come  to  ask  to  have  me,  or  I  should  have  come  in  from  the  garden 
instantly.  I  ran  after  you  to  say  —  that  my  aunt  made  a  mistake  in  sending  you 
away  from  courting  me  " 

Gabriel  expanded.  "  I'm  sorry  to  have  made  you  run  so  fast,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
with  a  grateful  sense  of  favors  to  come.  "  Wait  a  bit  till  you've  found  your  breath." 

"It  was  quite  a  mistake, — aunt's  telling  you  I  had  a  young  man  already," 
Bathsheba  went  on.  "  I  haven't  a  sweetheart  at  all  —  and  I  never  had  one,  and  I 
thought  that,  as  times  go  with  women,  it  was  such  a  pity  to  send  you  away  think- 
ing I  had  several." 

"Really  and  truly  I  am  glad  to  hear  that!"  said  Farmer  Oak,  smiling  one  of 
his  long  special  smiles,  and  blushing  with  gladness.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  take 
hers,  which,  when  she  had  eased  her  side  by  pressing  it  there,  was  prettily  extended 
upon  her  bosom  to  still  her  loud-beating  heart.  Directly  he  seized  it  she  put  it  be- 
hind her,  so  that  it  slipped  through  his  fingers  like  an  eel. 

"  I  have  a  nice  snug  little  farm,"  said  Gabriel,  with  half  a  degree  less  assurance 
than  when  he  had  seized  her  hand. 

"  Yes  ;  you  have." 

"  A  man  has  advanced  me  money  to  begin  with,  but  still,  it  will  soon  be  paid 
off,  and,  though  I  am  only  an  every-day  sort  of  a  man,  I  have  got  on  a  little  since  I 
was  a  boy."  Gabriel  uttered  "a  little  "  in  a  tone  to  show  her  that  it  was  the  com- 
placent form  of  "a  great  deal."  He  continued:  "When  we  are  married,  I  am 
quite  sure  I  can  work  twice  as  hard  as  I  do  now." 

He  went  forward  and  stretched  out  his  arm  again.  Bathsheba  had  overtaken 
him  at  a  point  beside  which  stood  a  low  stunted  holly-bush,  now  laden  with  red 
berries.  Seeing  his  advance  take  the  form  of  an  attitude  threatening  a  possible 
enclosure,  if  not  compression,  of  her  person,  she  edged  off  round  the  bush. 

"  Why,  Farmer  Oak,"  she  said,  over  the  top,  looking  at  him  with  rounded  eyes, 
"  I  never  said  I  was  going  to  marry  you." 


BATHSHEBA. 


A     QUESTION    OF    LOVING.  307 

"  Well  —  that  is  a  tale  !  "  said  Oak,  with  dismay.  "  To  run  after  anybody  like 
this,  and  then  say  you  don't  want  me  !  " 

"  What  I  meant  to  tell  you  was  only  this,"  she  said  eagerly,  and  yet  half-con- 
scious of  the  absurdity  of  the  position  she  had  made  for  herself ;  "that  nobody  has 
got  me  yet  as  a  sweetheart,  instead  of  my  having  a  dozen,  as  my  aunt  said  ;  I  hate 
to  be  thought  any  one's  property  in  that  way,  though  possibly  I  shall  be  had  some 
day.  Why,  if  I'd  wanted  you  I  shouldn't  run  after  you  like  this  ;  'twould  have 
been  the  forwardcst  thing  !  But  there  was  no  harm  in  hurrying  to  correct  a  piece 
of  false  news  that  had  been  told  you." 

"  Oh,  no  —  no  harm  at  all."  But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  too  generous 
in  expressing  a  judgment  impulsively,  and  Oak  added,  with  a  more  appreciative 
sense  of  all  the  circumstances,  "Well,  I  am  not  quite  certain  it  was  no  harm." 

"  Indeed,  I  hadn't  time  to  think  before  starting  whether  I  wanted  to  marry  or 
not,  for  you'd  have  been  gone  over  the  hill." 

"Come,"  said  Gabriel,  freshening  again;  "think  a  minute  or  two.  I'll  wait 
awhile,  Miss  Everdene.  Will  you  marry  me  ?  Do,  Bathsheba.  I  love  you  far 
more  than  common  !  " 

"  I'll  try  to  think,"  she  observed,  rather  more  timorously  ;  "  if  I  can  think  out 
of  doors  ;  but  my  mind  spreads  away  so." 

"  But  you  can  give  a  guess." 

"  Then  give  me  time."  Bathsheba  looked  thoughtfully  into  the  distance,  away 
from  the  direction  in  which  Gabriel  stood. 

"I  can  make  you  happy,"  said  he  to  the  back  of  her  head,  across  the  bush. 
"  You  shall  have  a  piano  in  a  year  or  two  —  farmer's  wives  are  getting  to  have 
pianos  now  —  and  I'll  practice  up  the  flute  right  well  to  play  with  you  in  the 
evenings." 

"  Yes  ;  I  should  like  that." 

"And  have  one  of  those  little  ten-pound  gigs  for  market  —  and  nice  flowers 
and  birds  —  cocks  and  hens,  I  mean,  because  they  are  useful,"  continued  Gabriel, 
feeling  balanced  between  poetry  and  prose.  .  .  . 

She  was  silent  awhile.  He  regarded  the  red  berries  between  them  over  and 
over  again,  to  such  an  extent,  that  holly  seemed  in  his  after-life  to  be  a  cipher  sig- 
nifying a  proposal  of  marriage.  Bathsheba  decisively  turned  to  him. 

"  No  ;  'tis  no  use,"  she  said.      "  I  don't  want  to  marry  you." 

"Try." 

"I  have  tried  hard  all  the  time  I've  been  thinking  ;  for  a  marriage  would  be 
very  nice  in  one  sense.  People  would  talk  about  me,  and  think  I  had  won  my  bat- 
tle. And  I  should  feel  triumphant,  and  all  that.  But  a  husband" 

"Well?" 

"Why,  he'd  always  be  there,  as  you  say  ;  whenever  I  looked  up,  there  he'd  be." 

"  Of  course  he  would  —  I,  that  is." 

"  Well,  what  I  mean  is  that  I  shouldn't  mind  being  a  bride  at  a  wedding,  if  I 
could  be  one  without  having  a  husband.  But  since  a  woman  can't  show  off  in  that 
way  by  herself,  I  sha'n't  marry  —  at  least  yet." 


308  A     QUESTION    OF    LOVING, 

"  That's  a  terrible  wooden  story." 

At  this  elegant  criticism  of  her  statement,  Bathsheba  made  an  addition  to  her 
dignity  by  a  slight  sweep  away  from  him. 

"  Upon  my  heart  and  soul,  I  don't  know  what  a  maid  can  say  stupider  than 
that,"  said  Oak.  "  But,  dearest,"  he  continued,  in  a  palliative  tone,  "  don't  be  like 
it !  "  Oak  sighed  a  deep  honest  sigh  —  none  the  less  so  in  that,  being  like  the 
sigh  of  a  pine  plantation,  it  was  rather  noticeable  as  a  disturbance  of  the  atmos- 
phere. "Why  won't  you  have  me  ?  "  he  said  appealingly,  creeping  round  the  holly 
to  reach  her  side. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  said,  retreating. 

"  But  why  ?  "  he  persisted,  standing  still  at  last,  in  despair  of  ever  reaching  her, 
and  facing  over  the  bush. 

"Because  I  don't  love  you." 

"  Yes,  but  "  — 

She  contracted  a  yawn  to  an  inoffensive  smallness,  so  that  it  was  hardly 
ill-rnannered  at  all.  "  I  don't  love  you,"  she  said. 

"But  I  love  you  — and,  as  for  myself,  I  am  content  to  be  liked." 

"No  —  no  —  I  cannot.  Don't  press  me  anymore — don't.  I  don't  love  you 
—  so  'twould  be  ridiculous,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 

No  man  likes  to  see  his  emotions  the  sport  of  a  merry-go-round  of  skittishness. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Oak,  firmly,  with  the  bearing  of  one  who  was  going  to  give 
his  days  and  nights  to  Ecclesiastes  forever.  "  Then  I'll  ask  you  no  more." 

THOMAS  HARDY. 


REFORM. 


3°9 


MILTON    AT    THE    ORGAN. 


REFORM. 


METHINKS  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation  rousing  herself  like  a 
strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks  ;  methinks  I  see  her  as 
an  eagle  muing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  dazzled  eyes  at  the  full  mid- 
day beam  ;  purging  and  unsealing  her  long  abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of 
heavenly  radiance;  while  the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking  birds,  with  those 
also  that  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  amazed  at  what  she  means,  and  in  their 
envious  gabble  would  prognosticate  a  year  of  sects  and  schisms. 

Error  supports  custom,  custom  countenances  error  ;  and  these  two  between 
them  would  persecute  and  chase  away  all  truth  and  solid  wisdom  out  of  human  life, 
were  it  not  that  God,  rather  than  man,  once  in  many  ages  calls  together  the  pru- 
dent and  religious  counsels  of  men,  deputed  to  repress  the  encroachments,  and  to 
work  off  the  inveterate  blots  and  obscurities  wrought  upon  our  minds  by  the  subtle 
insinuating  of  error  and  custom  ;  who,  with  the  numerous  and  vulgar  train  of  their 
followers,  make  it  their  chief  design  to  envy  and  cry  down  the  industry  of  free 
reasoning  under  the  terms  of  humor  and  innovation  ;  as  if  the  womb  of  teeming 
Truth  were  to  be  closed  up,  if  she  presumed  to  bring  forth  aught  that  sorts  not 
with  their  unchewed  notions  and  suppositions. 

JOHN  MILTON. 


310  COUNTRY    HOSPITALITY. 


COUNTRY     HOSPITALITY. 

THOSE  inferior  duties  of  life,  which  the  French  call  les  petites  morales,  or  the 
smaller  morals,  are  with  us  distinguished  by  the  name  of  good  manners  or  breed- 
ing. This  I  look  upon,  in  the  general  notion  of  it,  to  be  a  sort  of  artificial  good 
sense,  adapted  to  the  meanest  capacities,  and  introduced  to  make  mankind  easy  in 
their  commerce  with  each  other.  Low  and  little  understandings,  without  some 
rules  of  this  kind,  would  be  perpetually  wandering  into  a  thousand  indecencies  and 
irregularities  in  behavior ;  and  in  their  ordinary  conversation,  fall  into  the  same 
boisterous  familiarities  that  one  observes  among  them  where  intemperance  has 
quite  taken  away  the  use  of  their  reason.  In  other  instances,  it  is  odd  to  consider, 
that  for  want  of  common  discretion,  the  very  end  of  good  breeding  is  wholly  per- 
verted ;  and  civility,  intended  to  make  us  easy,  is  employed  in  laying  chains  and 
fetters  upon  us,  in  debarring  us  of  our  wishes,  and  in  crossing  our  most  reasonable 
desires  and  inclinations. 

This  abuse  reigns  chiefly  in  the  country,  as  I  found  to  my  vexation  when  I  was 
last  there,  in  a  visit  I  made  to  a  neighbor  about  two  miles  from  my  cousin.  As 
soon  as  I  entered  the  parlor,  they  put  me  into  the  great  chair  that  stood  close  by 
a  huge  fire,  and  kept  me  there  by  force  until  I  was  almost  stifled.  Then  a  boy 
came  in  a  great  hurry  to  pull  off  my  boots,  which  I  in  vain  opposed,  urging  that  I 
must  return  soon  after  dinner.  In  the  mean  time  the  good  lady  whispered  her 
eldest  daughter,  and  slipped  a  key  into  her  hand  ;  the  girl  returned  instantly  with 
a  beer:glass  half-full  of  aqua  mirabilis  and  sirup  of  gillyflowers.  I  took  as  much 
as  I  had  a  mind  for,  but  madam  vowed  I  should  drink  it  off  ;  for  she  was  sure  it 
would  do  me  good  after  coming  out  of  the  cold  air ;  and  I  was  forced  to  obey,  which 
absolutely  took  away  my  stomach.  When  dinner  came  in,  I  had  a  mind  to  sit  at  a 
distance  from  the  fire  ;  but  they  told  me  it  was  as  much  as  my  life  was  worth,  and 
sat  me  with  my  back  just  against  it.  Although  my  appetite  was  quite  gone,  I  was 
resolved  to  force  down  as  much  as  I  could,  and  desired  the  leg  of  a  pullet.  "  In- 
deed, Mr.  Bickerstaff,"  says  the  lady,  "  you  must  eat  a  wing,  to  oblige  me  ;  "  and 
so  put  a  couple  upon  my  plate.  I  was  persecuted  at  this  rate  during  the  whole 
meal :  as  often  as  I  called  for  small  beer,  the  master  tipped  the  wink,  and  the 
servant  brought  me  a  brimmer  of  October. 

Some  time  after  dinner,  I  ordered  my  cousin's  man,  who  came  with  me,  to  get 
ready  the  horses  ;  but  it  was  resolved  I  should  not  stir  that  night  ;  and  when  I 
seemed  pretty  much  bent  upon  going,  they  ordered  the  stable  door  to  be  locked, 
and  the  children  hid  my  cloak  and  boots.  The  next  question  was,  What  should  I 
have  for  supper  ?  I  said,  I  never  eat  anything  at  night  ;  but  was  at  last,  in  my 
own  defense,  obliged  to  name  the  first  thing  that  came  into  my  head.  After  three 
hours,  spent  chiefly  in  apologies  for  my  entertainment,  insinuating  to  me,  "That 
this  was  the  worst  time  of  the  year  for  provisions  ;  that  they  were  at  a  great  dis- 
tance from  any  market ;  that  they  were  afraid  I  should  be  starved  ;  and  that  they 


THE    AMERICAN    INDIAN.  3n 

knew  they  kept  me  to  my  loss  ;  "  the  lady  went,  and  left  me  to  her  husband  ;  for 
they  took  special  care  I  should  never  be  alone.  As  soon  as  her  back  was  turned, 
the  little  misses  ran  backward  and  forward  every  moment,  and  constantly  as  they 
came  in,  or  went  out,  made  a  courtesy  directly  at  me,  which,  in  good  manners,  I 
was  forced  to  return  with  a  bow,  and  "your  humble  servant,  pretty  miss."  Exactly 
at  eight,  the  mother  came  up,  and  discovered,  by  the  redness  of  her  face,  that  sup- 
per was  not  far  off.  It  was  twice  as  large  as  the  dinner,  and  my  persecution 
doubled  in  proportion.  I  desired  at  my  usual  hour  to  go  to  my  repose,  and  was 
conducted  to  my  chamber  by  the  gentleman,  his  lady,  and  the  whole  train  of  chil- 
dren. They  importuned  me  to  drink  something  before  I  went  to  bed  ;  and,  upon 
my  refusing,  at  last  left  a  bottle  of  stingo,  as  they  call  it,  for  fear  I  should  wake 
and  be  thirsty  in  the  night. 

I  was  forced  in  the  morning  to  rise  and  dress  myself  in  the  dark,  because  they 
would  not  suffer  my  kinsman's  servant  to  disturb  me  at  the  hour  I  desired  to  be 
called.  I  was  now  resolved  to  break  through  all  measures  to  get  away  ;  and,  after 
sitting  down  to  a  monstrous  breakfast  of  cold  beef,  mutton,  neat's  tongues,  veni- 
son pasty,  and  stale  beer,  took  leave  of  the  family.  But  the  gentleman  would 
needs  see  me  part  of  the  way,  and  carry  me  a  short  cut  through  his  own  ground, 
which  he  told  me  would  save  half  a  mile's  riding.  This  last  piece  of  civility  had 
like  to  have  cost  me  dear,  being  once  or  twice  in  danger  of  my  neck  by  leaping 
over  his  ditches,  and  at  last  forced  to  alight  in  the  dirt,  when  my  horse,  having 
slipped  his  bridle,  ran  away,  and  took  us  up  more  than  an  hour  to  recover  him 
again. 

JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


THE     AMERICAN     INDIAN. 

IT  is  a  sad  commentary  on  civilization  that  it  has  but  degraded  where  it  should 
have  exalted.  The  Indian  has  been  the  white  man's  foil  where  he  should  have 
proved  his  friend.  Christianity  failed  to  christianize  him  not  because  of  any  in- 
herent weakness  in  the  grandest  of  religious  faiths,  but  because  of  the  lack  of  real 
Christianity  itself  in  the  exponents  of  that  faith.  Appetite  which  should  have  been 
cultivated  into  gentle  living  was  used  to  make  him  a  brute;  association  which 
should  have  uplifted  him  made  him  an  outcast  and  a  vagrant  ;  statesmanship  which 
should  have  constituted  him  the  peer  of  his  white  brethren  has  alternately  perse- 
cuted and  petted,  domineered  over  and  degraded  him.  And  the  race  that  took 
from  him  his  land  has  taken  from  him  also  his  ambition,  his  manhood  and  his  life. 

The  American  Indian  has  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  race.  His  has  been  a 
record  which  even  dead  civilizations  might  well  have  envied.  Evolved  from  sav- 
agery through  years  of  partial  progress,  he  became  as  bold  a  warrior  as  ever  Homer 


3I2 


THE    AMERICAN    INDIAN. 


sung,  as  eloquent  an  orator  as  Greek  or  Roman  knew.  His  barbaric  virtues  could 
shame  the  sloth  and  license  of  Tiberius'  day,  his  simple  manliness  could  put  to 
blush  the  servile  manners  of  Justinian's  court.  His  rude  manufactures  and  yet 
ruder  art  have,  rude  as  they  were,  still  furnished  suggestions  upon  which  modern 
invention  can  scarcely  improve,  and  his  governmental  policy  of  a  league  of  freemen 
is  that  toward  which  all  the  world  is  tending. 

His  manners  and  his  methods  will  compare  favorably  with  those  of  any  barbaric 
people.  With  no  more  brutality  than  the  Huns  of  Attila,  no  greater  ferocity  than 
the  sea-wolves  of  Olaf  the  Viking,  and  no  deeper  strain  of  vindictiveness  than  the 
Goths  of  Alaric,  the  American  Indian  has  been  eliminated  as  a  factor  in  a  fusing 
civilization  where  these  bloodier  compeers  have  been  accepted  as  the  bases  of  refined 
nationalities. 

The  Indian  knew  no  law  but  that  of  simple  justice,  no  dealings  other  than  those 
of  simple  honesty,  no  order  more  binding  than  that  of  simple  equality.  His  mind, 
hampered  by  the  superstition  that  always  inheres  in  an  out-of-door  race,  was  still 
no  greater  slave  to  the  supernatural  than  is  that  of  the  agricultural  peasantry  of  any 
land,  and  the  spell  of  the  scalp-lock,  or  the  magic  of  the  "  fetich  "  was  not  so  very 
far  removed  from  the  slavish  manipulation  of  the  myriad  gods  of  Rome,  the  mystic 
"  unicorn-horn  "  of  the  bloody  Torqumada,  the  dread  of  the  "  evil  eye  "  among  the 
peasantry  of  England,  or  the  fancied  "  overlooking  "  which  led  to  such  a  tragic 
farce  upon  the  slope  of  Witches'  Hill. 

All  this  may  appear  to  practical  folk  as  an  heroic  and  over-drawn  estimate  of  a 
very  ordinary  and  limited  intelligence.  But  it  is  an  estimate  that  is  borne  out  by 
facts,  and  is  one,  moreover,  that  the  justice  of  the  conquerors  should  allow  to  the 
conquered.  The  shame  of  it  all  lies  in  the  knowledge  that  a  civilization  which 
might  have  moulded  has  only  marred,  and  that  a  promising  barbarism  that  in  time 
might  have  developed  into  a  completed  native  civilization  has  been  smothered  and 
contemptuously  blotted  out  by  the  followers  of  a  Master  whose  greatest  precept 
was  :  Love  one  another.  But  it  is  never  too  late  to  be  just. 

ELBRIDGE  S.  BROOKS. 


BURR    AND    BLENNERHASSET.  313 


BURR     AND     BLENNERHASSET. 

LET  us  put  the  case  between  Burr  and  Blennerhasset.  Let  us  compare  the  two 
men  and  settle  this  question  of  precedence  between  them.  It  may  save  a  good 
deal  of  troublesome  ceremony  hereafter. 

Who  Aaron  Burr  is,  we  have  seen  in  part  already.  I  will  add  that,  beginning 
his  operations  in  New  York,  he  associates  with  him  men  whose  wealth  is  to  supply 
the  necessary  funds.  Possessed  of  the  main-spring,  his  personal  labor  contrives 
all  the  machinery.  Pervading  the  continent  from  New  York  to  New  Orleans, 
he  draws  into  his  plan,  by  every  allurement  which  he  can  contrive,  men  of 
all  ranks  and  descriptions.  To  youthful  ardor  he  presents  danger  and  glory  ;  to 
ambition,  rank  and  titles  and  honors  ;  to  avarice,  the  mines  of  Mexico.  To  each 
person  whom  he  addresses  he  presents  the  object  adapted  to  his  taste.  His  re- 
cruiting-officers are  appointed.  Men  are  engaged  throughout  the  continent.  Civil 
life  is,  indeed,  quiet  upon  its  surface,  but  in  its  bosom  this  man  has  contrived  to 
deposit  the  materials  which,  with  the  slightest  touch  of  his  match,  produce  an  ex- 
plosion to  shake  the  continent.  All  this  his  restless  ambition  has  contrived  ;  and, 
in  the  autumn  of  1806,  he  goes  forth  for  the  last  time  to  apply  this  match.  On 
this  occasion  he  meets  with  Blennerhasset. 

Who  is  Blennerhasset  ?  A  native  of  Ireland,  a  man  of  letters,  who  fled  from 
the  storms  of  his  own  country  to  find  quiet  in  ours.  His  history  shows  that  war 
is  not  the  natural  element  of  his  mind  ;  if  it  had  been,  he  never  would  have  ex- 
changed Ireland  for  America.  So  far  is  an  army  from  furnishing  the  society  natural 
and  proper  to  Mr.  Blennerhasset's  character,  that,  on  his  arrival  in  America,  he 
retired  even  from  the  population  of  the  Atlantic  States,  and  sought  quiet  and 
solitude  in  the  bosom  of  our  Western  forests.  But  he  carried  with  him  taste  and 
science  and  wealth  ;  and,  lo  !  the  desert  smiled.  Possessing  himself  of  a  beauti- 
ful island  in  the  Ohio,  he  rears  upon  it  a  palace  and  decorates  it  with  every  romantic 
embellishment  of  fancy.  A  shrubbery  that  Shenstone  might  have  envied  blooms 
around  him.  Music  that  might  have  charmed  Calypso  and  her  nymphs  is  his.  An 
extensive  library  spreads  its  treasures  before  him.  A  philosophical  apparatus  offers 
to  him  all  the  secrets  and  mysteries  of  nature.  Peace,  tranquillity,  and  innocence 
shed  their  mingled  delights  around  him.  And,  to  crown  the  enchantment  of  the 
scene,  a  wife,  who  is  said  to  be  lovely  even  beyond  her  sex,  and  graced  with  every 
accomplishment  that  can  render  it  irresistible,  had  blessed  him  with  her  love  and 
made  him  the  father  of  several  children.  The  evidence  would  convince  you  that 
this  is  but  a  faint  picture  of  the  real  life.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  peace,  this  inno- 
cent simplicity  and  this  tranquillity,  this  feast  of  the  mind,  this  pure  banquet  of  the 
heart,  the  destroyer  comes  ;  he  comes  to  change  this  paradise  into  a  hell.  Yet  the 
flowers  do  not  wither  at  his  approach.  No  monitory  shuddering  through  the 
bosom  of  their  unfortunate  possessor  warns  him  of  the  ruin  that  is  coming  upon 
him.  A  stranger  presents  himself.  Introduced  to  their  civilities  by  the  high  rank 


3i4  BURR    AND    BLENNERHASSET. 

which  he  had  lately  held  in  his  country,  he  soon  finds  his  way  to  their  hearts  by  the 
dignity  and  elegance  of  his  demeanor,  the  light  and  beauty  of  his  conversation,  and 
the  seductive  and  fascinating  power  of  his  address.  The  conquest  was  not  difficult. 
Innocence  is  ever  simple  and  credulous.  Conscious  of  no  design  itself,  it  suspects 
none  in  others.  It  wears  no  guard  before  its  breast.  Every  door  and  portal  and 
avenue  of  the  heart  is  thrown  open,  and  all  who  choose  it  enter.  Such  was  the 
state  of  Eden  when  the  serpent  entered  its  bowers.  The  prisoner,  in  a  more  engag- 
ing form,  winding  himself  into  the  open  and  unpractised  heart  of  the  unfortunate 
Blennerhasset,  found  but  little  difficulty  in  changing  the  native  character  of  that 
heart  and  the  objects  of  its  affection.  By  degrees  he  infuses  into  it  the  poison  of 
his  own  ambition.  He  breathes  into  it  the  fire  of  his  own  courage,  —  a  daring  and 
desperate  thirst  for  glory,  an  ardor  panting  for  great  enterprises,  for  all  the  storm 
and  bustle  and  hurricane  of  life.  In  a  short  time  the  whole  man  is  changed,  and 
every  object  of  his  former  delight  is  relinquished.  No  more  he  enjoys  the  tranquil 
scene  :  it  has  become  flat  and  insipid  to  his  taste.  His  books  are  abandoned.  His 
retort  and  crucible  are  thrown  aside.  His  shrubbery  blooms  and  breathes  its  fra- 
grance upon  the  air  in  vain :  he  likes  it  not.  His  ear  no  longer  drinks  the  rich 
melody  of  music  :  it  longs  for  the  trumpet's  clangor  and  the  cannon's  roar.  Even 
the  prattle  of  his  babes,  once  so  sweet,  no  longer  affects  him  ;  and  the  angel-smile 
of  his  wife,  which  hitherto  touched  his  bosom  with  ecstasy  so  unspeakable,  is  now 
unseen  and  unfelt.  Greater  objects  have  taken  possession  of  his  soul.  His  imagi- 
nation has  been  dazzled  by  visions  of  diadems,  of  stars  and  garters  and  titles  of 
nobility.  He  has  been  taught  to  burn  with  restless  emulation  at  the  names  of  great 
heroes  and  conquerors.  His  enchanted  island  is  destined  soon  to  relapse  into  a 
wilderness  ;  and  in  a  few  months  we  find  the  beautiful  and  tender  partner  of  his 
bosom,  whom  he  lately  "permitted  not  the  winds  of  "summer  "to  visit  too 
roughly,"  we  find  her  shivering  at  midnight  on  the  wintry  banks  of  the  Ohio,  and 
mingling  her  tears  with  the  torrents  that  froze  as  they  fell.  Yet  this  unfortunate 
man,  thus  deluded  from  his  interest  and  his  happiness,  thus  seduced  from  the  paths 
of  innocence  and  peace,  thus  confounded  in  the  toils  that  were  deliberately  spread 
for  him,  and  overwhelmed  by  the  mastering  spirit  and  genius  of  another,  —  this 
man,  thus  ruined  and  undone  and  made  to  play  a  subordinate  part  in  this  grand 
drama  of  guilt  and  treason,  —  this  man  is  to  be  called  the  principal  offender,  while 
he  by  whom  he  was  thus  plunged  in  misery  is  comparatively  innocent,  —  a  mere 
accessory  !  Is  this  reason  ?  Is  it  law  ?  Is  it  humanity  ?  Sir,  neither  the  human 
heart  nor  the  human  understanding  will  bear  a  perversion  so  monstrous  and  absurd  ! 
so  shocking  to  the  soul !  so  revolting  to  reason  !  Let  Aaron  Burr,  then,  not  shrink 
from  the  high  destination  which  he  has  courted  ;  and,  having  already  ruined 
Blennerhasset  in  fortune,  character,  and  happiness  forever,  let  him  not  attempt  to 
finish  the  tragedy  by  thrusting  that  ill-fated  man  between  himself  and  punishment. 

WILLIAM  WIRT. 


ISABELLA     OF    SPAIN,  315 


ISABELLA     OF     SPAIN. 

HER  person  was  of  the  middle  height,  and  well  proportioned.  She  had  a  clear, 
fresh  complexion,  with  light  blue  eyes  and  auburn  hair,  —  a  style  of  beauty  exceed- 
ingly rare  in  Spain.  Her  features  were  regular,  and  universally  allowed  to  be 
uncommonly  handsome.  The  illusion  which  attaches  to  rank,  more  especially 
when  united  with  engaging  manners,  might  lead  us  to  suspect  some  exaggeration 
in  the  encomiums  so  liberally  lavished  on  her.  But  they  would  seem  to  be  in  a 
great  measure  justified  by  the  portraits  that  remain  of  her,  which  combine  a  fault- 
less symmetry  of  features  with  singular  sweetness  and  intelligence  of  expression. 

Her  manners  were  most  gracious  and  pleasing.  They  were  marked  by  natural 
dignity  and  modest  reserve,  tempered  by  an  affability  which  flowed  from  the  kind- 
liness of  her  disposition.  She  was  the  last  person  to  be  approached  with  undue 
familiarity  ;  yet  the  respect  which  she  imposed  was  mingled  with  the  strongest 
feelings  of  devotion  and  love.  She  showed  great  tact  in  accommodating  herself  to 
the  peculiar  situation  and  character  of  those  around  her.  She  appeared  in  arms 
at  the  head  of  her  troops,  and  shrunk  from  none  of  the  hardships  of  war.  During 
the  reforms  -introduced  into  the  religious  houses,  she  visited  the  nunneries  in 
person,  taking  her  needlework  with  her,  and  passing  the  day  in  the  society  of  the 
inmates.  When  traveling  in  Galicia,  she  attired  herself  in  the  costume  of  the 
country,  borrowing  for  that  purpose  the  jewels  and  other  ornaments  of  the  ladies 
there,  and  returning  them  with  liberal  additions.  By  this  condescending  and  cap- 
tivating deportment,  as  well  as  by  her  higher  qualities,  she  gained  an  ascendency 
over  her  turbulent  subjects  which  no  king  of  Spain  could  ever  boast. 

She  spoke  the  Castilian  with  much  elegance  and  correctness.  She  had  an  easy 
fluency  of  discourse,  which,  though  generally  of  a  serious  complexion,  was  occa- 
sionally seasoned  with  agreeable  sallies,  some  of  which  have  passed  into  proverbs. 
She  was  temperate  even  to  abstemiousness  in  her  diet,  seldom  or  never  tasting 
wine,  and  so  frugal  in  her  table,  that  the  daily  expenses  of  herself  and  family  did 
not  exceed  the  moderate  sum  of  forty  ducats.  She  was  equally  simple  and  eco- 
nomical in  her  apparel.  On  all  public  occasions,  indeed,  she  displayed  a  royal 
magnificence  ;  but  she  had  no  relish  for  it  in  private;  and  she  freely  gave  away  her 
clothes  and  jewels  as  presents  to  her  friends.  Naturally  of  a  sedate,  though  cheer- 
ful temper,  she  had  little  taste  for  the  frivolous  amusements  which  make  up  so 
much  of  a  court  life  ;  and,  if  she  encouraged  the  presence  of  minstrels  and  musicians 
in  her  palace,  it  was  to  wean  her  young  nobility  from  the  coarser  and  less  intellectual 
pleasures  to  which  they  were  addicted. 

Among  her  moral  qualities,  the  most  conspicuous,  perhaps,  was  her  magna- 
nimity. She  betrayed  nothing  little  or  selfish  in  thought  or  action.  Her  schemes 
were  vast,  and  executed  in  the  same  noble  spirit  in  which  they  were  conceived. 
She  never  employed  doubtful  agents  or  sinister  measures,  but  the  most  direct 
and  open  policy.  She  scorned  to  avail  herself  of  advantages  offered  by  the  perfidy 


316 


ISABELLA     OF    SPAIN. 


of  others.  Where  she  had  once  given  her  confidence,  she  gave  her  hearty  and 
steady  support  ;  and  she  was  scrupulous  to  redeem  any  pledge  she  had  made  to 
those  who  ventured  in  her  cause,  however  unpopular.  She  sustained  Ximenes  in 
all  his  obnoxious  but  salutary  reforms.  She  seconded  Columbus  in  the  prosecution 
of  his  arduous  enterprise,  and  shielded  him  from  the  calumny  of  his  enemies.  She 
did  the  same  good  service  to  her  favorite,  Gonsalvo  de  Cordova  ;  and  the  day  of  her 
death  was  felt,  and,  as  it  proved,  truly  felt,  by  both,  as  the  last  of  their  good  fortune. 
Artifice  and  duplicity  were  so  abhorent  to  her  character,  and  so  averse  from  her 
domestic  policy,  that,  when  they  appear  in  the  foreign  relations  of  Spain,  it  is  cer- 
tainly not  imputable  to  her.  She  was  incapable  of  harboring  any  petty  distrust  or 
latent  malice  ;  and,  although  stern  in  the  execution  and  exaction  of  public  justice, 
she  made  the  most  generous  allowance,  and  even  sometimes  advances,  to  those  who 
had  personally  injured  her. 

But  the  principle  which  gave  a  peculiar  coloring  to  every  feature  of  Isabella's 
mind  was  piety.  It  shone  forth  from  the  very  depths  of  her  soul  with  a  heavenly 
radiance,  which  illuminated  her  whole  character.  Fortunately,  her  earliest  years 
had  been  passed  in  the  rugged  school  of  adversity,  under  the  eye  of  a  mother  who 
implanted  in  her  serious  mind  such  strong  principles  of  religion  as  nothing  in  after- 
life had  power  to  shake.  At  an  early  age,  in  the  flower  of  youth  and  beauty,  she 
was  introduced  to  her  brother's  court ;  but  its  blandishments,  so  dazzling  to  a  young 
imagination,  had  no  power  over  hers,  for  she  was  surrounded  by  a  moral  atmosphere 
of  purity, — 

"  Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt." 

Such  was  the  decorum  of  her  manners  that,  though  encompassed  by  false  friends 
and  open  enemies,  not  the  slightest  reproach  was  breathed  on  her  fair  name  in  this 
corrupt  and  calumnious  court. 

WILLIAM  HICKLING  PRESCOTT. 


THE    LEGEND     OF    THE    DATE-TREE.  317 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DATE-TREE. 

IN  a  lot  situated  at  the  corner  of  Orleans  and  Dauphine  streets,  in  the  city  of 
New  Orleans,  there  is  a  tree  which  nobody  looks  at  without  curiosity  and  without 
wondering  how  it  came  there.  For  a  long  time  it  was  the  only  one  of  its  kind 
known  in  the  state,  and  from  its  isolated  position,  it  has  always  been  cursed  with 
sterility.  It  reminds  one  of  the  warm  climes  of  Africa  or  Asia,  and  wears  the  as- 
pect of  a  stranger  of  distinction  driven  from  his  native  country.  Indeed,  with  its 
sharp  and  thin  foliage,  sighing  mournfully  under  the  blast  of  one  of  our  November 
northern  winds,  it  looks  as  sorrowful  as  an  exile.  Its  enormous  trunk  is  nothing 
but  an  agglomeration  of  knots  and  bumps,  which  each  passing  year  seems  to  have 
deposited  there  as  a  mark  of  age,  and  as  a  protection  against  the  blows  of  time  and 
of  the  world.  Inquire  for  its  origin,  and  every  one  will  tell  you  that  it  has  stood 
there  from  time  immemorial.  A  sort  of  vague  but  impressive  mystery  is  attached 
to  it,  and  it  is  as  superstitiously  respected  as  one  of  the  old  oaks  of  Dodona.  Bold 
would  be  the  axe  that  should  strike  the  first  blow  at  that  foreign  patriarch  ;  and  if 
it  were  prostrated  to  the  ground  by  a  profane  hand,  what  native  of  the  city  would 
not  mourn  over  its  fall,  and  brand  the  act  as  an  unnatural  and  criminal  deed  ?  So, 
long  live  the  date-tree  of  Orleans  street  —  that  time-honored  descendant  of  Asiatic 
ancestors ! 

In  the  beginning  of  1727,  a  French  vessel  of  war  landed  at  New  Orleans  a.  man 
of  haughty  mien,  who  wore  the  Turkish  dress,  ancl  whose  whole  attendance  was  a 
single  servant. 

He  was  received  by  the  governor  with  the  highest  distinction,  and  was  con- 
ducted by  him  to  a  small  but  comfortable  house  with  a  pretty  garden,  then  existing 
at  the  corner  of  Orleans  and  Dauphine  streets,  and  which,  from  the  circumstance 
of  its  being  so  distant  from  other  dwellings,  might  have  been  called  a  rural  retreat, 
although  situated  in  the  limits  of  the  city.  There,  the  stranger,  who  was  under- 
stood to  be  a  prisoner  of  state,  lived  in  the  greatest  seclusion  ;  and  although 
neither  he  nor  his  attendant  could  be  guilty  of  indiscretion,  because  none  under- 
stood their  language,  and  although  Governor  Perier  severely  rebuked  the  slightest 
inquiry,  yet  it  seemed  to  be  the  settled  conviction  in  Louisiana,  that  the  mysterious 
stranger  was  a  brother  of  the  Sultan,  or  some  great  personage  of  the  Ottoman  em- 
pire, who  had  fled  from  the  anger  of  the  viceregent  of  Mohammed,  and  who  had 
taken  refuge  in  France.  The  Sultan  had  peremptorily  demanded  the  fugitive,  and 
the  French  government,  thinking  it  derogatory  to  its  dignity  to  comply  with  that 
request,  but  at  the  same  time  not  wishing  to  expose  its  friendly  relations  with  the 
Moslem  monarch,  and  perhaps  desiring,  for  political  purposes,  to  keep  in  hostage 
the  important  guest  it  had  in  its  hands,  had  recourse  to  the  expedient  of  answering 
that  he  had  fled  to  Louisiana,  which  was  so  distant  a  country  that  it  might  be 
looked  upon  as  the  grave,  where,  as  it  was  suggested,  the  fugitive  might  be  suffered 
to  wait  in  peace  for  actual  death,  without  danger  or  offence  to  the  Sultan.  Whether 


3i8  A     SCENE    IN    THE     FORECASTLE. 

this  story  be  true  or  not  is  now  a  matter  of  so  little  consequence,  that  it  would  not 
repay  the  trouble  of  a  strict  historical  investigation. 

The  year  1727  was  drawing  to  its  close,  when  on  a  dark,  stormy  night,  the 
howling  and  barking  of  the  numerous  dogs  in  the  streets  of  New  Orleans  were 
observed  to  be  fiercer  than  usual,  and  some  of  that  class  of  individuals  who  pretend 
to  know  everything,  declared  that,  by  the  vivid  flashes  of  the  lightning,  they  had 
seen,  swiftly  and  stealthily  gliding  toward  the  residence  of  the  unknown,  a  body 
of  men  who  wore  the  scowling  appearance  of  malefactors  and  ministers  of  blood. 
There  afterward  came  also  a  report  that  a  piratical-looking  Turkish  vessel  had  been 
hovering  a  few  days  previous  in  the  bay  of  Barataria.  Be  it  as  it  may,  on  the  next 
morning  the  house  of  the  stranger  was  deserted.  There  were  no  traces  of  mortal 
struggle  to  be  seen  ;  but  in  the  garden,  the  earth  had  been  dug,  and  there  was  the 
unmistakable  indication  of  a  recent  grave.  Soon,  however,  all  doubts  were  removed 
by  the  finding  of  an  inscription  in  Arabic  characters,  engraved  on  a  marble  tablet, 
which  was  subsequently  sent  to  France.  It  ran  thus  :  "The  justice  of  heaven  is 
satisfied,  and  the  date-tree  shall  grow  on  the  traitor's  tomb.  The  sublime  Emperor 
of  the  faithful,  the  supporter  of  the  faith,  the  omnipotent  master  and  Sultan  of  the 
world,  has  redeemed  his  vow.  God  is  great,  and  Mohammed  is  his  prophet. 
Allah  !  "  Some  time  after  this  event,  a  foreign-looking  tree  was  seen  to  peep  out 
of  the  spot  where  a  corpse  must  have  been  deposited  in  that  stormy  night,  when 
the  rage  of  the  elements  yielded  to  the  pitiless  fury  of  man,  and  it  thus  explained 
in  some  degree  this  part  of  the  inscription,  "  the  date-tree  shall  grow  on  the  traitor's 
grave." 

Who  was  he,  or  what  had  he  done,  who  had  provoked  such  relentless  and  far- 
seeking  revenge  ?  Ask  Nemesis,  or  —  at  that  hour  when  evil  spirits  are  allowed 
to  roam  over  the  earth,  and  magical  invocations  are  made — go,  and  interrogate 
the  tree  of  the  dead. 

CHARLES  ETIENNE  ARTHUR  GAYARRE. 


A     SCENE     IN     THE     FORECASTLE. 

I  HAD  scarcely  been  aboard  of  the  ship  twenty-four  hours,  when  a  circumstance 
occurred,  which,  although  noways  picturesque,  is  so  significant  of  the  state  of  affairs, 
that  I  cannot  forbear  relating  it. 

In  the  first  place,  however,  it  must  be  known,  that  among  the  crew  was  a  man 
so  excessively  ugly,  that  he  went  by  the  ironical  appellation  of  "  Beauty."  He  was 
the  ship's  carpenter;  and  for  that  reason  was  sometimes  known  by  his  nautical 
cognomen  of  "Chips."  There  was  no  absolute  deformity  about  the  man  ;  he  was 
symmetrically  ugly.  But  ill-favored  as  he  was  in  person,  Beauty  was  none  the  less 
ugly  in  temper  ;  but  no  one  could  blame  him  ;  his  countenance  had  soured  his 


A     SCENE    IN    THE    FORECASTLE. 


3*9 


heart.  Now  Jermin  and  Beauty  were  always  at  sword's  points.  The  truth  was, 
the  latter  was  the  only  man  in  the  ship  whom  the  mate  had  never  decidedly  got  the 
better  of  ;  and  hence  the  grudge  he  bore  him.  As  for  Beauty,  he  prided  himself 
upon  talking  up  to  the  mate,  as  we  shall  soon  see. 

Toward  evening  there  was  something  to  be  done  on  deck,  and  the  carpenter 
who  belonged  to  the  watch  was  missing.  "  Where's  that  skulk,  Chips  ? "  shouted 
Jermin  down  the  forecastle  scuttle. 

"  Taking  his  ease,  d'ye  see,  down  here  on  a  chest,  if  you  want  to  know,"  replied 


UNDER    SAIL. 


that  worthy  himself,  quietly  withdrawing  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  This  insolence 
flung  the  fiery  little  mate  into  a  mighty  rage  ;  but  Beauty  said  nothing,  puffing 
away  with  all  the  tranquillity  imaginable.  Here,  it  must  be  remembered  that,  never 
mind  what  may  be  the  provocation,  no  prudent  officer  ever  dreams  of  entering  a 
ship's  forecastle  on  a  hostile  visit.  If  he  wants  to  see  anybody  who  happens  to  be 
there,  and  refuses  to  come  up,  why  he  must  wait  patiently  until  the  sailor  is  willing. 
The  reason  is  this.  The  place  is  very  dark  ;  and  nothing  is  easier  than  to  knock 
one  descending  on  the  head,  before  he  knows  where  he  is,  and  a  very  long  while 
before  he  ever  finds  out  who  did  it. 

Nobody  knew  this  better  than  Jermin,  and  so  he  contented  himself  with  looking 
down  the  scuttle  and  storming.  At  last  Beauty  made  some  cool  observation  which 
set  him  half  wild. 


32o  A     SCENE    IN    THE    FORECASTLE. 

"  Tumble  on  deck,"  he  then  bellowed  —  "  come,  up  with  you,  or  I'll  jump  down 
and  make  you."  The  carpenter  begged  him  to  go  about  it  at  once. 

No  sooner  said  than  done  :  prudence  forgotten,  Jermin  was  there  ;  and  by  a  sort 
of  instinct,  had  his  man  by  the  throat  before  he  could  well  see  him.  One  of  the 
men  now  made  a  rush  at  him,  but  the  rest  dragged  him  off,  protesting  that  they 
should  have  fair  play. 

"  Now,  come  on  deck,"  shouted  the  mate,  struggling  like  a  good  fellow  to  hold 
the  carpenter  fast. 

"Take  me  there,"  was  the  dogged  answer,  and  Beauty  wriggled  about  in  the 
nervous  grasp  of  the  other  like  a  couple  of  yards  of  boa-constrictor. 

His  assailant  now  undertook  to  make  him  up  into  a  compact  bundle,  the  more 
easily  to  transport  him.  While  thus  occupied,  Beauty  got  his  arms  loose,  and 
threw  him  over  backward.  But  Jermin  quickly  recovered  himself,  when  for  a  time 
they  had  it  every  way,  dragging  each  other  about,  bumping  their  heads  against  the 
projecting  beams,  and  returning  each  other's  blows  the  first  favorable  opportunity 
that  offered. 

Unfortunately,  Jermin  at  last  slipped  and  fell  ;  his  foe  seating  himself  on  his 
chest  and  keeping  him  down.  Now  this  was  one  of  those  situations  in  which  the 
voice  of  counsel,  or  reproof,  comes  with  peculiar  unction.  Nor  did  Beauty  let  the 
opportunity  slip.  But  the  mate  said  nothing  in  reply,  only  foaming  at  the  mouth 
and  struggling  to  rise. 

Just  then  a  thin  tremor  of  a  voice  was  heard  from  above.  It  was  the  captain, 
who,  happening  to  ascend  to  the  quarter-deck  at  the  commencement  of  the  scuffle, 
would  gladly  have  returned  to  the  cabin,  but  was  prevented  by  the  fear  of  ridicule. 
As  the  din  increased,  and  it  became  evident  that  his  officer  was  in  serious  trouble, 
he  thought  it  would  never  do  to  stand  leaning  over  the  bulwarks,  so  he  made  his 
appearance  on  the  forecastle,  resolved,  as  his  best  policy,  to  treat  the  matter  lightly. 
"  Why,  why,"  he  began,  speaking  pettishly,  and  very  fast,  "what's  all  this  about  ? 
Mr.  Jermin,  Mr.  Jermin  —  carpenter,  carpenter  ;  what  are  you  doing  down  there  ? 
Come  on  deck  ;  come  on  deck." 

Whereupon  Doctor  Long  Ghost  cries  out  in  a  squeak,  "  Ah !  Miss  Guy,  is  that 
you  ?  Now,  my  dear,  go  right  home,  or  you'll  get  hurt." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  you,  sir,  whoever  you  are,  I  was  not  speaking  to  you  ;  none  of 
your  nonsense.  Mr.  Jermin,  I  was  talking  to  you  :  have  the  kindness  to  come  on 
deck,  sir  ;  I  want  to  see  you." 

"  And  how,  in  the  devil's  name,  am  I  to  get  there  ? "  cried  the  mate  furiously. 
"  Jump  down  here,  Captain  Guy,  and  show  yourself  a  man.  Let  me  up,  you  Chips  ! 
unhand  me,  I  say  !  Oh  !  I'll  pay  you  for  this,  some  day  !  Come  on,  Captain 
Guy  !  " 

At  this  appeal,  the  poor  man  was  seized  with  a  perfect  spasm  of  fidgets. 
"  Pooh,  pooh,  carpenter  ;  have  done  with  your  nonsense  !  Let  him  up,  sir  ;  let 
him  up  !  Do  you  hear  ?  Let  Mr.  Jermin  come  on  deck  !  " 

"  Go  along  with  you,  Paper  Jack,"  replied  Beauty  ;  "  this  quarrel's  between  the 
mate  and  me  ;  so  go  aft,  where  you  belong  ! " 


CAPTAIN    CUTTLE'S    ISLAND.  321 

As  the  captain  once  more  dipped  his  head  down  the  scuttle  to  make  answer, 
from  an  unseen  hand  he  received,  full  in  the  face,  the  contents  of  a  tin  can  of 
soaked  biscuit  and  tea-leaves.  The  doctor  was  not  far  off  just  then.  Without 
waiting  for  anything  more,  the  discomfited  gentleman,  with  both  hands  to  his 
streaming  face,  retreated  to  the  quarter-deck. 

A  few  moments  more,  and  Jermin,  forced  to  a  compromise,  followed  after,  in  his 
torn  frock  and  scarred  face,  looking  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  had  just  disentangled 
himself  from  some  intricate  piece  of  machinery.  For  about  half  an  hour  both 
remained  in  the  cabin,  where  the  mate's  rough  tones  were  heard  high  above  the 
low,  smooth  voice  of  the  captain. 

Of  all  his  conflicts  with  the  men,  this  was  the  first  in  which  Jermin  had  been 
worsted  ;  and  he  was  proportionably  enraged.  Upon  going  below  —  as  the  steward 
afterward  told  us  —  he  bluntly  informed  Guy,  that,  for  the  future,  he  might  look 
out  for  his  ship  himself ;  for  his  part,  he  was  done  with  her,  if  that  was  the  way  he 
allowed  his  officers  to  be  treated.  After  many  high  words,  the  captain  finally 
assured  him  that  the  first  fitting  opportunity  the  carpenter  should  be  cordially 
flogged  ;  though,  as  matters  stood,  the  experiment  would  be  a  hazardous  one. 
Upon  this  Jermin  reluctantly  consented  to  drop  the  matter  for  the  present ;  and 
he  soon  drowned  all  thoughts  of  it  in  a  can  of  flip,  which  Guy  had  previously 
instructed  the  steward  to  prepare,  as  a  sop  to  allay  his  wrath. 

HERMAN    MELVILLE. 


CAPTAIN     CUTTLE'S     ISLAND. 

IT  happened  by  evil  chance  to  be  one  of  Mrs.  MacStinger's  great  cleaning  days. 
On  these  occasions  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  knocked  up  by  the  policeman  at  a  quarter 
before  three  in  the  morning,  and  rarely  succumbed  before  twelve  o'clock  next 
night.  The  chief  object  of  this  institution  appeared  to  be,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger 
should  move  all  the  furniture  into  the  back-garden  at  early  dawn,  walk  about  the 
house  in  pattens  all  day,  and  move  the  furniture  back  again  after  dark.  These 
ceremonies  greatly  fluttered  those  doves,  the  young  MacStingers,  who  were  not 
only  unable  at  such  times  to  find  any  resting-place  for  the  soles  of  their  feet,  but 
generally  came  in  for  a  good  deal  of  pecking  from  the  maternal  bird  during  the 
progress  of  the  solemnities. 

At  the  moment  when  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  presented  themselves  at  Mrs. 
MacStinger's  door,  that  worthy  but  redoubtable  female  was  in  the  act  of  conveying 
Alexander  MacStinger,  aged  two  years  and  three  months,  along  the  passage  for 
forcible  deposition  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the  street  pavement  ;  Alexander  being 
black  in  the  face  with  holding  his  breath  after  punishment,  and  a  cool  paving-stone 
being  usually  found  to  act  as  a  powerful  restorative  in  such  cases. 


322  CAPTAIN    CUTTLE'S    ISLAND. 

The  feelings  of  Mrs.  MacStiriger,  as  a  woman  and  a  mother,  were  outraged  by 
the  look  of  pity  for  Alexander  which  she  observed  in  Florence's  face.  Therefore, 
Mrs.  MacStinger  asserting  those  finest  emotions  of  our  nature,  in  preference  to 
weakly  gratifying  her  curiosity,  shook  and  buffeted  Alexander,  both  before  and 
during  the  application  of  the  paving-stone,  and  took  no  further  notice  of  the 
strangers. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  Florence  when  the  child  had  found  his  breath 
again,  and  was  using  it.  "  Is  this  Captain  Cuttle's  house  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"  Not  Number  Nine  ?  "  asked  Florence,  hesitating. 

"  Who  said  it  wasn't  Number  Nine  ? "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

Susan  Nipper  instantly  struck  in,  and  begged  to  inquire  what  Mrs.  MacStinger 
meant  by  that,  and  if  she  knew  whom  she  was  talking  to. 

Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  retort,  looked  at  her  all  over.  "  What  do  you  want  with 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  should  wish  to  know  ? "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"  Should  you  ?  Then  I'm  sorry  that  you  won't  be  satisfied,"  returned  Miss 
Nipper. 

"  Hush,  Susan  !  If  you  please  !  "  said  Florence.  "  Perhaps  you  can  have  the 
goodness  to  tell  us  where  Captain  Cuttle  lives,  ma'am,  as  he  don't  live  here." 

"Who  says  he  don't  live  here?"  retorted  the  implacable  MacStinger.  "I 
said  it  wasn't  Cap'en  Cuttle's  house  —  and  it  a'nt  his  house  —  and  forbid  it  that  it 
ever  should  be  his  house — for  Cap'en  Cuttle  don't  know  how  to  keep  a  house  — 
and  don't  deserve  to  have  a  house  —  it's  my  house — and  when  I  let  the  upper 
floor  to  Cap'en  Cuttle,  oh,  I  do  a  thankless  thing,  and  cast  pearls  before  swine  !  " 

Mrs.  MacStinger  pitched  her  voice  for  the  upper  windows  in  offering  these 
remarks,  and  cracked  off  each  clause  sharply  by  itself,  as  if  from  a  rifle  possessing 
an  infinity  of  barrels.  After  the  last  shot,  the  captain's  voice  was  heard  to  say,  in 
feeble  remonstrance  from  his  own  room,  "  Steady  below  !  " 

"  Since  you  want  Cap'en  Cuttle,  there  he  is  !  "  %id  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  an 
angry  motion  of  her  hand.  On  Florence  making  b^ld  to  enter  without  any  more 
parley,  and  on  Susan  following,  Mrs.  MacStinger  recommenced  her  pedestrian 
exercise  in  pattens,  and  Alexander  MacStinger  (still  on  the  paving-stone),  who  had 
stopped  in  his  crying  to  attend  to  the  conversation,  began  to  wail  again,  entertain- 
ing himself  during  that  dismal  performance,  which  was  quite  mechanical,  with  a 
general  survey  of  the  prospect,  terminating  in  the  hackney  coach. 

The  captain  in  his  own  apartment  was  sitting  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  his  legs  drawn  up  under  his  chair,  on  a  very  small,  desolate  island,  lying 
about  midway  in  an  ocean  of  soap-and-water.  The  captain's  windows  had  been 
cleaned,  the  walls  had  been  cleaned,  the  stove  had  been  cleaned,  and  everything, 
the  stove  excepted,  was  wet,  and  shining  with  soft  soap  and  sand  :  the  smell  of 
which  dry-saltery  impregnated  the  air.  In  the  midst  of  the  dreary  scene,  the 
captain,  cast  away  upon  his  island,  looked  round  on  the  waste  of  waters  with  a  rueful 
countenance,  and  seemed  waiting  for  some  friendly  bark  to  come  that  way,  and 
take  him  off. 


CAPTAIN    CUTTLE'S    ISLAND.  323 

But  when  the  captain,  directing  his  forlorn  visage  towards  the  door,  saw  Florence 
appear  with  her  maid,  no  words  can  describe  his  astonishment.  Mrs.  MacStinger's 
eloquence  having  rendered  all  other  sounds  but  imperfectly  distinguishable,  he  had 
looked  for  no  rarer  visitor  than  the  potboy  or  the  milkman  ;  wherefore,  when 
Florence  appeared,  and,  coming  to  the  confines  of  the  island,  put  her  hand  in  his, 
the  captain  stood  up  aghast,  as  if  he  supposed  her,  for  the  moment,  to  be  some 
young  member  of  the  Flying  Dutchman's  family. 

Instantly  recovering  his  self-possession,  however,  the  captain's  first  care  was  to 
place  her  on  dry  land,  which  he  happily  accomplished  with  one  motion  of  his  arm. 
Issuing  forth,  then,  upon  the  main,  Captain  Cuttle  took  Miss  Nipper  round  the 
waist,  and  bore  her  to  the  island  also.  Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  great  respect  and 
admiration,  raised  the  hand  of  Florence  to  his  lips,  and  standing  off  a  little  (for  the 
island  was  not  large  enough  for  three),  beamed  on  her  from  the  soap-and-water  like 
a  new  description  of  Triton. 

"  You  are  amazed  to  see  us,  I  am  sure,"  said  Florence  with  a  smile. 

The  inexpressibly  gratified  captain  kissed  his  hook  in  reply  and  growled,  as  if  a 
choice  and  delicate  compliment  were  included  in  the  words,  "Stand  by  I  Stand 
by!" 

"  But  I  couldn't  rest,"  said  Florence,  "  without  coming  to  ask  you  what  you 
think  about  dear  Walter  —  who  is  my  brother  now  —  and  whether  there  is  anything 
to  fear,  and  whether  you  will  not  go  and  console  his  poor  uncle  every  day,  until  we 
have  some  intelligence  of  him  ?  " 

At  these  words  Captain  Cuttle,  as  by  an  involuntary  gesture,  clapped  his 
hand  to  his  head,  on  which  the  hard  glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discomfited. 

"  Have  you  any  fears  for  Walter's  safety  ? "  inquired  Florence,  from  whose  face 
the  captain  (so  enraptured  he  was  with  it)  could  not  take  his  eyes  :  while  she,  in  her 
turn,  looked  earnestly  at  him,  to  be  assured  of  the  sincerity  of  his  reply. 

"  No,  Heart's  Delight,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  I  am  not  afeard.  Wal'r  is  a  lad 
as'll  go  through  a  good  deal  o'  hard  weather.  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as'll  bring  as  much 
success  to  that  'ere  brig  as  a  lad  is  capable  on.  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  his  eyes 
glistening  with  the  praise  of  his  young  friend,  and  his  hook  raised  to  announce  a 
beautiful  quotation,  "  is  what  you  may  call  a  out'ard  and  visible  sign  of  a  in'ard  and 
spirited  grasp,  and  when  found  make  a  note  of." 

Florence,  who  did  not  quite  understand  this,  though  the  captain  evidently  thought 
it  full  of  meaning,  and  highly  satisfactory,  mildly  looked  to  him  for  something 
more. 

"lam  not  afeard,  my  Heart's  Delight,"  resumed  the  captain.  "There's  been 
most  uncommon  bad  weather  in  them  latitudes,  there's  no  denyin',  and  they  have 
drove  and  drove,  and  been  beat  off,  maybe  t'other  side  the  world.  But  the  ship's 
a  good  ship,  and  the  lad's  a  good  lad  ;  and  it  ain't  easy,  thank  the  Lord,"  the  cap- 
tain made  a  little  bow,  "  to  break  up  hearts  of  oak,  whether  they're  in  brigs  or  buz- 
zums.  Here  we  have  'em  both  ways,  which  is  bringing  it  up  with  a  round  turn,  and 
so  I  ain't  a  bit  afeard  as  yet." 

"  As  yet  ? "  repeated  Florence. 


324 


CAPTAIN    CUTTLE'S    ISLAND. 


"  Not  a  bit,"  returned  the  captain,  kissing  his  iron  hand  ;  "  and  afore  I  begin 
to  be,  my  Heart's  Delight,  Wal'r  will  have  wrote  home  from  the  island,  or  from 
some  port  or  another,  and  made  all  taut  and  ship-shape.  And  with  regard  to  old 
Sol  Gills,"  here  the  captain  became  solemn,  "  who  I'll  stand  by,  and  not  desert 
until  death  doe  us  part,  and  when  the  stormy  winds  do  blow,  do  blow,  do  blow  — 
overhaul  the  catechism,"  said  the  captain  parenthetically,  "  and  there  you'll  find 
them  expressions  —  if  it  would  console  Sol  Gills  to  have  the  opinion  of  a  seafaring 
man  as  has  got  a  mind  equal  to  any  undertaking  that  he  puts  it  alongside  of,  and 
as  was  all  but  smashed  in  his  'prenticeship,  and  of  which  the  name  is  Bunsby,  that 
'ere  man  shall  give  him  such  an  opinion  in  his  own  parlour  as'll  stun  him.  Ah  ! " 


"THE  STORMY  WINDS  DO  BLOW." 


said  Captain  Cuttle  vauntingly,  "  as  much  as  if  he'd  gone  and  knocked  his  head 
again  a  door  !  " 

"Let  us  take  this  gentleman  to  see  him,  and  let  us  hear  what  he  says,"  cried 
Florence.  "  Will  you  go  with  us  now  ?  We  have  a  coach  here." 

Again  the  captain  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which  the  hard  glazed  hat 
was  not,  and  looked  discomfited.  But  at  this  instant  a  most  remarkable  phenom- 
enon occurred.  The  door  opening  without  any  note  of  preparation,  and  ap- 
parently of  itself,  the  hard  glazed  hat  in  question  skimmed  into  the  room  like  a 
bird,  and  alighted  heavily  at  the  captain's  feet.  The  door  then  shut  as  violently  as 
it  had  opened,  and  nothing  ensued  in  explanation  of  the  prodigy. 

Captain    Cuttle  picked  up  his  hat,  and,  having  turned  it  over  with  a  look  of 


CAPTAIN    CUTTLE'S    ISLAND. 


325 


interest  and  welcome,  began  to  polish  it  on  his  sleeve.  While  doing  so,  the  captain 
eyed  his  visitors  intently,  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  You  see  I  should  have  bore  down  on  Sol  Gills  yesterday  and  this  morning, 
but  she  —  she  took  it  away  and  kept  it.  That's  the  long  and  short  of  the  subject." 

"  Who  did,  for  goodness'  sake  ?  "  asked  Susan  Nipper. 

"  The  lady  of  the  house,  my  dear,"  returned  the  captain  in  a  gruff  whisper,  and 
making  signals  of  secrecy.  "  We  had  some  words  about  the  swabbing  of  these  here 
planks,  and  she  —  in  short,"  said  the  captain,  eying  the  door,  and  relieving  himself, 
with  a  long  breath,  "she  stopped  my  liberty." 

"  Oh  !  I  wish  she  had  me  to  deal  with  !  "  said  Susan,  reddening  with  the  energy 
of  the  wish.  "  I'd  stop  her !  " 

"Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?"  rejoined  the  captain,  shaking  his  head 
doubtfully,  but  regarding  the  desperate  courage  of  the  fair  aspirant  with  obvious 
admiration.  "  I  don't  know.  It's  difficult  navigation.  She's  very  hard  to  carry 
on  with,  my  dear.  You  never  can  tell  how  she'll  head,  you  see.  She's  full  one 
minute,  and  round  upon  you  next.  And  when  she  is  a  Tartar,"  said  the  captain, 

with  the  perspiration  breaking  out  on  his  forehead There  was  nothing  but 

a  whistle  emphatic  enough  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence,  so  the  captain  whistled 
tremulously.  After  which  he  again  shook  his  head,  and  recurring  to  his  admiration 
of  Miss  Nipper's  devoted  bravery,  timidly  repeated,  "  Would  you,  do  you  think,  my 
dear  ? " 

Susan  only  replied  with  a  bridling  smile,  but  that  was  so  very  full  of  defiance, 
that  there  is  no  knowing  how  long  Captain  Cuttle  might  have  stood  entranced  in 
its  contemplation,  if  Florence  in  her  anxiety  had  not  again  proposed  their  immediately 
resorting  to  the  oracular  Bunsby.  Thus  reminded  of  his  duty,  Captain  Cuttle  put 
on  the  glazed  hat  firmly,  took  up  another  knobby  stick,  with  which  he  had  supplied 
the  place  of  that  one  given  to  Walter,  and  offering  his  arm  to  Florence,  prepared 
to  cut  his  way  through  the  enemy. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  had  already  changed  her  course 
and  that  she  headed,  as  the  captain  had  remarked  she  often  did,  in  quite  a  new 
direction.  For,  when  they  got  downstairs,  they  found  that  exemplary  woman  beat- 
ing the  mats  on  the  door-steps,  with  Alexander,  still  upon  the  paving-stone,  dimly 
looming  through  a  fog  of  dust ;  and  so  absorbed  was  Mrs.  MacStinger  in  her  house- 
hold occupation,  that  when  Captain  Cuttle  and  his  visitors  passed,  she  beat  the 
harder,  and  neither  by  word  nor  gesture  showed  any  consciousness  of  their  vicinity. 
The  captain  was  so  well  pleased  with  this  easy  escape  — although  the  effect  of  the 
door-mats  on  him  was  like  a  copious  administration  of  snuff,  and  made  him  sneeze 
until  the  tears  ran  down  his  face  —  that  he  could  hardly  believe  his  good  fortune  ; 
but  more  than  once,  between  the  door  and  the  hackney  coach,  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  with  an  obvious  apprehension  of  Mrs.  MacStinger's  giving  chase  yet. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


326  PARBERRY    ISLAND 


BARBERRY    ISLAND. 

BARBERRY  ISLAND  is  the  Island  of  Calm  Delights.  That  is,  you  feel  sure  of  it 
if  you  land  from  the  quiet  little  cove  on  the  western  side,  whence  the  grass-grown 
main  street  of  the  village  takes  up  its  gentle  way. 

The  houses  on  each  side  of  the  road  lack  the  staring  white  and  green  paint  and 
smart  and  thrifty  air  that  characterize  New  England  houses  generally  ;  they  were 
evidently  smart  and  shining  once,  but  that  was  before  Barberry  Island  went  to 
sleep.  Now  and  then  there  is  a  garden  with  old-fashioned  flowers  in  it  ;  but  the 
drowsy  poppies  and  the  melancholy  mourning  brides  look  much  more  at  home  than 
the  sturdy  London  pride  and  the  pert  little  bachelors'  buttons,  which  are  almost 
strangled  by  weeds.  The  church  is  as  guiltless  of  paint  as  the  dwelling-houses, 
and  looks  as  it  were  tottering  to  its  fall.  The  carpet  is  threadbare  and  moth-eaten, 
the  walls  and  roof  stained  and  cracked,  and  the  sounding  board  over  the  pulpit 
must  arouse  the  most  dismal  apprehensions  in  the  mind  of  the  minister  who  stands 
under  it.  On  some  pews,  and  on  the  Bibles  and  hymn  books  in  their  racks,  dust 
has  been  allowed  to  gather  thickly  ;  whether  this  is  from  a  melancholy  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things  or  a  desire  to  economize  labor,  we  can  only  guess. 

A  fence  suddenly  arrests  our  footsteps.  There  is  a  gate,  fastened  only  by  a 
feeble  and  frayed  rope,  but  there  is  little  temptation  to  venture  beyond  it  ;  marshy 
land,  beset  with  bogs  and  pitfalls,  lies  on  the  other  side.  The  grassy  road  has 
come  to  an  end  —  because,  as  Deacon  Manley  informed  us,  "  there  didn't  seem  to 
be  no  pertickler  reason  for  its  goin'  no  further." 

It  is  just  beyond  the  burying  ground  that  the  road  comes  to  an  end,  as  if,  hav- 
ing brought  its  travelers  to  that  peaceful  bourne,  its  mission  was  accomplished. 

The  cemetery  looks  neglected.  Evidently  Luke  Hadlock  was  not  the  only 
"  corpse  "  whose  relatives  had  "  died  out."  A  tangle  of  grass  and  weeds  and 
running  vines  links  the  graves  together  ;  the  paths  are  "  past  finding  out."  There 
are  many  more  stones  than  graves. 

In  an  obscure  corner  we  come  suddenly  upon  a  new  grave.  It  causes  a  shock 
of  surprise,  for  the  ancient  dates  on  the  stones  have  beguiled  us  into  the  fancy  that 
nobody  dies  on  Barberry  Island  nowadays.  And  on  the  Island  of  Calm  Delights, 
so  far  from  the  jars  and  turmoils  of  the  world,  there  wouldn't,  as  Deacon  Manley 
would  say,  "seem  to  be  no  pertikler  reason  "  why  people  should  not  live  on  forever. 
The  headstone  has  been  very  recently  set,  but  the  date  upon  it  is  of  a  year 
ago.  "Jonas  Battles.  Aged  43.  Drowned  off  Dead  Man's  Point,  Aug.  13, 
187 — ."  Probably  a  fisherman  whose  boat  was  overtaken  by  a  sudden  squall  ; 
such  accidents  are  common  enough  along  this  rocky  coast.  But  a  sudden  recollec- 
tion strikes  us  that  we  have  heard  of  a  man  who  saved  a  young  girl  from  drowning 
here  last  summer,  and  lost  his  own  life. 

Only  half-remembering  the  details,  and  feeling  an  interest  in  Jonas  Battles  and 
his  fate,  we  go  over  to  Deacon  Manley's  store  to  make  inquiries.  The  Deacon  is  a 


THE     TOWN   PUMP.  327 

living  chronicle  of  all  the  events  which  have  transpired  on  Barberry  Island  for  the 
last  fifty  years. 

His  stock  in  trade  is  small  in  extent,  but  great  in  variety.  Every  article  has 
its  price  plainly  marked  upon  it,  and  in  a  conspicuous  position  is  this  notice  : 
"  Customers  will  please  make  change  for  themselves  in  the  drawer."  The  door 
stands  wide  open,  and  there  is  neither  proprietor  "nor  clerk  about  the  premises. 
The  drawer,  filled  with  money,  is  unlocked.  Apparently  the  millennium  has 
begun  on  Barberry  Island. 

SOPHIE  SWETT. 


THE     TOWN     PUMP. 

NOON,  by  the  north  clock!  Noon,  by  the  east  !  High  noon,  too,  by  these  hot 
sunbeams,  which  fall,  scarcely  aslope,  upon  my  head,  and  almost  make  the  water 
bubble  and  smoke  in  the  trough  under  my  nose.  Truly,  we  public  characters  have 
a  tough  time  of  it  !  And,  among  all  the  town  officers,  chosen  at.  March  meeting, 
where  is  he  that  sustains,  for  a  single  year,  the  burden  of  such  manifold  duties  as 
are  imposed,  in  perpetuity,  upon  the  Town  Pump?  The  title  of  "town  treasurer  "  is 
rightfully  mine,  as  guardian  of  the  best  treasure  that  the  town  has.  The  overseers 
of  the  poor  ought  to  make  me  their  chairman,  since  I  provide  bountifully  for  the 
pauper,  without  expense  to  him  that  pays  taxes.  I  am  at  the  head  of  the  fire- 
department,  and  one  of  the  physicians  to  the  board  of  health.  As  a  keeper  of  the 
peace,  all  water-drinkers  will  confess  me  equal  to  the  constable.  I  perform  some 
of  the  duties  of  the  town  clerk,  by  promulgating  public  notices  when  they  are 
posted  on  my  front.  To  speak  within  bounds,  I  am  the  chief  person  of  the  mu- 
nicipality, and  exhibit,  moreover,  an  admirable  pattern  to  my  brother  officers,  by 
the  cool,  steady,  upright,  downright,  and  impartial  discharge  of  my  business,  and 
the  constancy  with  which  I  stand  to  my  post.  Summer  or  winter,  nobody  seeks 
me  in  vain ;  for,  all  day  long,  I  am  seen  at  the  busiest  corner,  just  above  the  market, 
stretching  out  my  arms  to  rich  and  poor  alike  ;  and  at  night,  I  hold  a  lantern  over 
my  head,  both  to  show  where  I  am,  and  keep  people  out  of  the  gutters. 

At  this  sultry  noontide,  I  am  cupbearer  to  the  parched  populace,  for  whose 
benefit  an  iron  goblet  is  chained  to  my  waist.  Like  a  dramseller  on  the  mall  at 
muster-day,  I  cry  aloud  to  all  and  sundry,  in  my  plainest  accents,  and  at  the  very 
tiptop  of  my  voice.  Here  it  is,  gentlemen  !  Here  is  the  good  liquor !  Walk  up, 
walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  walk  up  !  Here  is  the  superior  stuff  !  Here  is 
the  unadulterated  ale  of  father  Adam,  —  better  than  Cognac,  Hollands,  Jamaica, 
strong  beer,  or  wine  of  any  price  ;  here  it  is  by  the  hogshead  or  the  single  glass, 
and  not  a  cent  to  pay  !  Walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  and  help  yourselves  ! 


THE     TOWN    PUMP. 


It  were  a  pity  if  all  this  outcry  should  draw  no  customers.  Here  they  come. 
A  hot  day,  gentlemen  !  Quaff,  and  away  again,  so  as  to  keep  yourselves  in  a  nice 
cool  sweat.  You,  my  friend,  will  need  another  cupful,  to  wash  the  dust  out  of  your 
throat,  if  it  be  as  thick  there  as  it  is  on  your  cow-hide  shoes.  I  see  that  you  have 
trudged  half  a  score  of  miles  to-day,  and,  like  a  wise  man,  have  passed  by  the 
taverns,  and  stopped  at  the  running  brooks  and  well-curbs.  Otherwise,  betwixt 
heat  without  and  fire  within,  you  would  have  been  burnt  to  a  cinder,  or  melted 
down  to  nothing  at  all,  in  the  fashion  of  a  jelly-fish.  Drink,  and  make  room  for 
that  other  fellow,  who  seeks  my  aid  to  quench  the  fiery  fever  of  last  night's  pota- 
tions, which  he  drained  from  no  cup  of  mine.  Welcome,  most  rubicund  sir!  You 

and  I  have  been  great  strangers,  hitherto  ; 

r  "  '  •:-•;.  „  •     -  -'  _>"'  7'^?    "     :"  "      "        "•-••--S-"^ 

nor,  to  confess  the  truth,  will  my  nose  be 
anxious  for  a  closer  intimacy,  till  the  fumes 
of    your   breath    be   a   little    less    potent. 
Mercy  on  you,  man  !  the  water  absolutely 
hisses    down    your    red-hot    gullet,  and    is 
converted  quite  to  steam,  in  the  miniature 
tophet  which  you  mistake  for  a  stomach. 
Fill  again,  and  tell  me,  on  the  word  of  an 
honest  toper,  did  you  ever,  in  cellar,  tav- 
ern, or  any  kind  of  a  dram-shop,  spend  the 
price  of  your    children's    food    for  a  swig 
half  so  delicious  ?     Now,  for  the  first  time 
these  ten  years,  you  know    the    flavor    of 
cold  water.     Good-by  ;  and,  whenever  you 
are  thirsty,  remember  that  I  keep  a  con- 
stant supply,  at  the  old  stand.     Who  next  ? 
Oh,  my  little  friend,  you  are  let  loose  from 
school,    and    come   hither   to    scrub    your 
blooming  face,  and  drown  the  memory  of 
certain  taps  of  the  ferrule,  and  other  school- 
boy troubles,  in  a  draught  from  the  Town  Pump.      Take  it,  pure  as  the  current  of 
your  young  life.     Take  it,  and  may  your  heart  and  tongue  never  be  scorched  with 
a  fiercer  thirst  than  now !     There,  my  dear  child,  put  down  the  cup,  and  yield  your 
place  to  this  elderly  gentleman,  who  treads  so  tenderly  over  the  paving-stones,  that 
I  suspect  he  is  afraid  of  breaking  them.     What  !  he  limps  by,  without  so  much 
as  thanking  me,  as  if  my  hospitable  offers  were  meant  only  for  people  who  have 
no  wine-cellars.     Well,  well,  sir,  —  no  harm  done,  I  hope  !     Go  draw  the  cork,  tip 
the  decanter;  but,  when  your  great  toe  shall  set  you  a-roaring,  it  will  be  no  affair 
of  mine.      If  gentlemen  love  the  pleasant  titillation  of  the  gout,  it  is  all  one  to  the 
Town  Pump.     This  thirsty  dog,  with  his  red  tongue  lolling  out,  does  not  scorn  my 
hospitality,  but  stands  on  his  hind  legs  and  laps  eagerly  out  of  the  trough.     See 
how  lightly  he   capers    away  again  !     Jowler,    did    your    worship   ever   have    the 
grout  ? 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


ADAM    AND    DINAH.  329 

Your  pardon,  good  people!  I  must  interrupt  my  stream  of  eloquence,  and 
spout  forth  a  stream  of  water,  to  replenish  the  trough  for  this  teamster  and  his  two 
yoke  of  oxen,  who  have  come  from  Topsfield,  or  somewhere  along  that  way.  No 
part  of  my  business  is  pleasanter  than  the  watering  of  cattle.  Look !  how  rapidly 
they  lower  the  water-mark  on  the  sides  of  the  trough,  till  their  capacious  stomachs 
are  moistened  with  a  gallon  or  two  apiece,  and  they  can  afford  time  to  breathe  it 
in,  with  sighs  of  calm  enjoyment.  Now  they  roll  their  quiet  eyes  around  the  brim 
of  their  monstrous  drinking-vessel.  An  ox  is  your  true  toper. 

Ahem  !  Dry  work,  this  speechifying  ;  especially  to  an  unpractised  orator.  I 
never  conceived  till  now  what  toil  the  temperance  lecturers  undergo  for  my  sake. 
Hereafter  they  shall  have  the  business  to  themselves.  Do,  some  kind  Christian, 
pump  a  stroke  or  two,  just  to  wet  my  whistle.  Thank  you,  sir.  My  dear  hearers, 
when  the  world  shall  have  been  regenerated  by  my  instrumentality,  you  will  collect 
your  useless  vats  and  liquor-casks  into  one  great  pile,  and  make  a  bonfire  in  honor 
of  the  Town  Pump.  And  when  I  shall  have  decayed,  like  my  predecessors,  then, 
if  you  revere  my  memory,  let  a  marble  fountain,  richly  sculptured,  take  my  place 
upon  the  spot.  Such  monuments  should  be  erected  everywhere,  and  inscribed 
with  the  names  of  the  distinguished  champions  of  my  cause.  .  .  . 

One  o'clock  !  Nay,  then,  if  the  dinner-bell  begins  to  speak,  I  may  as  well  hold 
my  peace. —  Here  comes  a  pretty  young  girl  of  my  acquaintance,  with  a  large  stone 
pitcher  for  me  to  fill.  May  she  draw  a  husband,  while  drawing  her  water,  as  Rachel 
did  of  old  !  Hold  out  your  vessel,  my  dear !  There  it  is,  full  to  the  brim  ;  so  now 
run  home,  peeping  at  your  sweet  image  in  the  pitcher  as  you  go  ;  and  forget  not, 
in  a  glass  of  my  own  liquor,  to  drink  —  "  Success  to  the  Town  Pump  !  " 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


ADAM     AND     DINAH. 

ADAM  looked  at  her ;  it  was  so  sweet  to  look  at  her  eyes,  which  had  now  a  self- 
forgetful  questioning  in  them — for  a  moment  he  forgot  that  he  wanted  to  say 
anything,  or  that  it  was  necessary  to  tell  her  what  he  meant. 

"Dinah,"  he  said  suddenly,  taking  both  her  hands  between  his,  "I  love  you 
with  my  whole  heart  and  soul.  I  love  you  next  to  God  who  made  me." 

Dinah's  lips  became  pale,  like  her  cheeks,  and  she  trembled  violently  under  the 
shock  of  painful  joy.  Her  hands  were  cold  as  death  between  Adam's.  She  could 
not  draw  them  away,  because  he  held  them  fast. 

"  Don't  tell  me  you  can't  love  me,  Dinah.  Don't  tell  me  we  must  part,  and 
pass  our  lives  away  from  one  another." 

The  tears  were  trembling  in  Dinah's  eyes,  and  they  fell  before  she  could  answer. 
But  she  spoke  in  a  quiet,  low  voice.  "  Yes,  dear  Adam,  we  must  submit  to  another 
Will.  We  must  part." 


33° 


ADAM    AND    DINAH. 


"Not  if  you  love  me,  Dinah, — not  if  you  love  me,"  Adam  said  passionately. 
"Tell  me  — tell  me  if  you  can  love  me  better  than  a  brother." 

Dinah  was  too  entirely  reliant  on  the  Divine  Will  to  attempt  to  achieve  any 
end  by  a  deceptive  concealment.  She  was  recovering  now  from  the  first  shock  of 
emotion,  and  she  looked  at  Adam  with  simple,  sincere  eyes  as  she  said,  — 

"  Yes,  Adam,  my  heart  is  drawn  strongly  toward  you ;  and  of  my  own  will,  if  I 
had  no  clear  showing  to  the  contrary,  I  could  find  my  happiness  in  being  near  you, 
and  ministering  to  you  continually.  I  fear  I  should  forget  to  rejoice  and  weep 
with  others ;  nay,  I  fear  I  should  forget  the  Divine  Presence,  and  seek  no  love  but 
yours."  .  .  . 

Adam  went  on  presently  with  his  pleading :  — 

"  And  you  can  do  almost  as  much  as  you  do  now ;  I  won't  ask  you  to  go  to 
church  with  me  of  a  Sunday.  You  shall  go  where  you  like  among  the  people,  and 
teach  'em  ;  for  though  I  like  church  best,  I  don't  put  my  soul  above  yours,  as  if 
my  words  was  better  for  you  t'  follow  than  your  own  conscience.  And  you  can 
help  the  sick  just  as  much,  and  you'll  have  more  means  o'  making  'em  a  bit  com- 
fortable ;  and  you'll  be  among  all  your  own  friends  as  love  you,  and  can  help  'em, 
and  be  a  blessing  to  'em,  till  their  dying  day.  Surely,  Dinah,  you'd  be  as  near  to 
God  as  if  you  were  living  lonely  and  away  from  me." 

Dinah  made  no  answer  for  some  time.  Adam  was  still  holding  her  hands,  and 
looking  at  her  with  almost  trembling  anxiety,  when  she  turned  her  grave,  loving 
eyes  on  his,  and  said  in  rather  a  sad  voice,  — 

"  Adam,  there  is  truth  in  what  you  say ;  and  there's  many  of  God's  servants 
who  have  greater  strength  than  I  have,  and  find  their  hearts  enlarged  by  the  cares 
of  husband  and  kindred.  But  I  have  not  faith  that  it  would  be  so  with  me,  for 
since  my  affections  have  been  set  above  measure  on  you,  I  have  had  less  peace  and 
joy  in  God  ;  I  have  felt,  as  it  were,  a  division  in  my  heart.  And  think  how  it  is 
with  me,  Adam  :  that  life  I  have  led  is  like  a  land  I  have  trodden  in  blessedness 
since  my  childhood ;  and  if  I  long  for  a  moment  to  follow  the  voice  which  calls  me 
to  another  land  that  I  know  not,  I  cannot  but  fear  that  my  soul  might  hereafter 
yearn  for  that  early  blessedness  which  I  had  forsaken;  and  where  doubt  enters, 
there  is  not  perfect  love.  I  must  wait  for  clearer  guidance  ;  I  must  go  from  you, 
and  we  must  submit  ourselves  entirely  to  the  Divine  Will.  We  are  sometimes 
required  to  lay  our  natural,  lawful  affections  on  the  altar." 

Adam  dared  not  plead  again,  for  Dinah's  was  not  the  voice  of  caprice  or 
insincerity.  But  it  was  very  hard  for  him  ;  his  eyes  got  dim  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  But  you  may  come  to  feel  satisfied — to  feel  that  you  may  come  to  me  again, 
and  we  may  never  part,  Dinah  ?  " 

"  We  must  submit  ourselves,  Adam.  With  time,  our  duty  will  be  made  clear. 
It  may  be,  when  I  have  entered  on  my  former  life,  I  shall  find  all  these  new 
thoughts  and  wishes  vanish,  and  become  as  things  that  were  not.  Then  I  shall 
know  that  my  calling  is  not  toward  marriage.  But  we  must  wait." 

He  came  within  three  paces  of   her,  and  then  said,  "Dinah!"     She  started 


INDOLENCE.  33I 

without  looking  round,  as  if  she  connected  the  sound  with  no  place.  "Dinah  !" 
Adam  said  again.  He  knew  quite  well  what  was  in  her  mind.  She  was  so 
accustomed  to  think  of  impressions  as  purely  spiritual  monitions,  that  she  looked 
for  no  material  visible  accompaniment  of  the  voice. 

But  this  second  time  she  looked  round.  What  a  look  of  yearning  love  it  was 
that  the  mild  gray  eyes  turned  on  the  strong,  dark-eyed  man  !  She  did  not  start 
again  at  the  sight  of  him  ;  she  said  nothing,  but  moved  toward  him  so  that  his  arm 
could  clasp  her  round. 

And  they  walked  on  so  in  silence,  while  the  warm  tears  fell.  Adam  was 
content,  and  said  nothing.  It  was  Dinah  who  spoke  first. 

"  Adam,"  she  said,  "  it  is  the  Divine  Will.  My  soul  is  so  knit  to  yours  that  it 
is  but  a  divided  life  I  live  without  you.  And  this  moment,  now  you  are  with  me, 
and  I  feel  that  our  hearts  are  filled  with  the  same  love,  I  have  a  fulness  of  strength 
to  bear  and  do  our  Heavenly  Father's  will  that  I  had  lost  before." 

Adam  paused,  and  looked  into  her  sincere,  loving  eyes. 

"Then  we'll  never  part  any  more,  Dinah,  till  death  parts  us." 

And  they  kissed  each  other  with  a  deep  joy. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


INDOLENCE. 

STRENUOUS  individual  application  is  the  price  paid  for  distinction  ;  excellence  of 
any  sort  being  invariably  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  indolence.  It  is  the  diligent 
hand  and  head  alone  that  maketh  rich,  —  in  self-culture,  growth  in  wisdom,  and  in 
business.  Even  when  men  are  born  to  wealth  and  high  social  position,  any  solid 
reputation  which  they  may  individually  achieve  can  only  be  obtained  by  energetic 
application  ;  for  though  an  inheritance  of  acres  may  be  bequeathed,  an  inheritance 
of  knowledge  and  wisdom  cannot.  The  wealthy  man  may  pay  others  for  doing  his 
work  for  him,  but  it  is  impossible  to  get  his  thinking  done  for  him  by  another,  or 
to  purchase  any  kind  of  self-culture.  Indeed,  the  doctrine  that  excellence  in  any 
pursuit  is  only  to  be  achieved  by  laborious  application,  holds  as  true  in  the  case  of 
the  man  of  wealth  as  in  that  of  Drew  and  Gifford,  whose  only  school  was  a  cobbler's 
stall,  or  Hugh  Miller,  whose  only  college  was  a  Cromarty  stone  quarry. 

Although  much  may  be  accomplished  by  means  of  individual  industry  and 
energy,  as  these  and  other  instances  set  forth  in  the  following  pages  serve  to 
illustrate,  it  must  at  the  same  time  be  acknowledged  that  the  help  which  we  derive 
from  others  in  the  journey  of  life  is  of  very  great  importance.  The  poet  Words- 
worth has  well  said  that  "  these  two  things,  contradictory  though  they  may  seem, 
must  go  together,  —  manly  dependence  and  manly  independence,  manly  reliance 


332  THE     TOURNAMENT. 

and  manly  self-reliance."  From  infancy  to  old  age,  all  are  more  or  less  indebted 
to  others  for  nurture  and  culture ;  and  the  best  and  strongest  are  usually  found  the 
readiest  to  acknowledge  such  help. 

A  human  character  is  moulded  by  a  thousand  subtle  influences  ;  by  example 
and  precept ;  by  life  and  literature  ;  by  friends  and  neighbors ;  by  the  world  we  live 
in  as  well  as  by  the  spirits  of  our  forefathers,  whose  legacy  of  good  words  and  deeds 
we  inherit.  But  great,  unquestionably,  though  these  influences  are  acknowl- 
edged to  be,  it  is  nevertheless  equally  clear  that  men  must  necessarily  be  the  active 
agents  of  their  own  well-being  and  well-doing ;  and  that,  however  much  the  wise 
and  the  good  may  owe  to  others,  they  themselves  must  in  the  very  nature  of  things 
be  their  own  best  helpers. 

SAMUEL  SMILES. 


THE     TOURNAMENT. 

ABOUT  the  hour  of  ten  o'clock,  the  whole  plain  was  crowded  with  horsemen, 
horsewomen,  and  foot  passengers,  hastening  to  the  tournament  ;  and  shortly  after, 
a  grand  flourish  of  trumpets  announced  Prince  John  and  his  retinue,  attended  by 
many  of  those  knights  who  meant  to  take  share  in  the  game,  as  well  as  others  who 
had  no  such  intention. 

About  the  same  time  arrived  Cedric  the  Saxon,  with  the  Lady  Rowena,  unat- 
tended, however,  by  Athelstane.  This  Saxon  lord  had  arrayed  his  tall  and  strong 
person  in  armor,  in  order  to  take  his  place  among  the  combatants  ;  and,  consider- 
ably to  the  surprise  of  Cedric,  had  chosen  to  enlist  himself  on  the  part  of  the 
Knight  Templar.  The  Saxon,  indeed,  had  remonstrated  strongly  with  his  friend 
upon  the  injudicious  choice  he  had  made  of  his  party  ;  but  he  had  only  received 
that  sort  of  answer  usually  given  by  those  who  are  more  obstinate  in  following  their 
own  course,  than  strong  in  justifying  it. 

His  best,  if  not  his  only  reason,  for  adhering  to  the  party  of  Brian  de  Bois-Guil- 
bert,  Athelstane  had  the  prudence  to  keep  to  himself.  Though  his  apathy  of  dis- 
position prevented  his  taking  any  means  to  recommend  himself  to  the  Lady 
Rowena,  he  was,  nevertheless,  by  no  means  insensible  to  her  charms,  and  con- 
sidered his  union  with  her  as  a  matter  already  fixed  beyond  doubt,  by  the  assent  of 
Cedric  and  her  other  friends.  It  had  therefore  been  with  smothered  displeasure 
that  the  proud  though  indolent  Lord  of  Coningsburg  beheld  the  victor  of  the  pre- 
ceding day  select  Rowena  as  the  object  of  that  honor  which  it  became  his  privilege 
to  confer.  In  order  to  punish  him  for  a  preference  which  seemed  to  interfere  with 
his  own  suit,  Athelstane,  confident  of  his  strength,  and  to  whom  his  flatterers,  at 
least,  ascribed  great  skill  in  arms,  had  determined  not  only  to  deprive  the  Disin- 
herited Knight  of  his  powerful  succor,  but,  if  an  opportunity  should  occur,  to  make 
him  feel  the  weight  of  his  battle-axe. 


THE     TO  UR  NA  ME  NT..  333 

De  Bracy,  and  other  knights  attached  to  Prince  John,  in  obedience  to  a  hint 
from  him,  had  joined  the  party  of  the  challengers,  John  being  desirous  to  secure,  if 
possible,  the  victory  to  that  side.  On  the  other  hand,  many  other  knights,  both 
English  and  Norman,  natives  and  strangers,  took  part  against  the  challengers,  the 
more  readily  that  the  opposite  band  was  to  be  led  by  so  distinguished  a  champion 
as  the  Disinherited  Knight  had  approved  himself. 

As  soon  as  Prince  John  observed  that  the  destined  Queen  of  the  day  had  arrived 
upon  the  field,  assuming  that  air  of  courtesy  which  sat  well  upon  him  when  he  was 
pleased  to  exhibit  it,  he  rode  forward  to  meet  her,  doffed  his  bonnet,  and,  alighting 
from  his  horse,  assisted  the  Lady  Rowena  from  her  saddle,  while  his  followers  un- 
covered at  the  same  time,  and  one  of  the  most  distinguished,  dismounted  to  hold 
her  palfrey. 

"  It  is  thus,"  said  Prince  John,  "  that  we  set  the  dutiful  example  of  loyalty  to 
the  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty,  and  are  ourselves  her  guide  to  the  throne  which 
she  must  this  day  occupy.  —  Ladies,"  he  said,  "attend  your  Queen,  as  you  wish  in 
your  turn  to  be  distinguished  by  like  honors." 

So  saying,  the  Prince  marshalled  Rowena  to  the  seat  of  honor  opposite  his  own, 
while  the  fairest  and  most  distinguished  ladies  present  crowded  after  her  to  obtain 
places  as  near  as  possible  to  their  temporary  sovereign. 

No  sooner  was  Rowena  seated  than  a  burst  of  music,  half-drowned  by  the  shouts 
of  the  multitude,  greeted  her  new  dignity.  Meantime,  the  sun  shone  fierce  and 
bright  upon  the  polished  arms  of  the  knights  of  either  side,  who  crowded  the  oppo- 
site extremities  of  the  lists,  and  held  eager  conference  together  concerning  the 
best  mode  of  arranging  their  line  of  battle,  and  supporting  the  conflict. 

The  heralds  then  proclaimed  silence  until  the  laws  of  the  tourney  should  be 
rehearsed.  These  were  calculated  in  some  degree  to  abate  the  dangers  of  the  day  ; 
a  precaution  the  more  necessary,  as  the  conflict  was  to  be  maintained  with  sharp 
swords  and  pointed  lances. 

The  champions  were  therefore  prohibited  to  thrust  with  the  sword,  and  were 
confined  to  striking.  A  knight,  it  was  announced,  might  use  a  mace  or  battle-axe 
at  pleasure,  but  the  dagger  was  a  prohibited  weapon.  A  knight  unhorsed  might 
renew  the  fight  on  foot  with  any  other  on  the  opposite  side  in  the  same  predica- 
ment ;  but  mounted  horsemen  were  in  that  case  forbidden  to  assail  him.  When 
any  knight  could  force  his  antagonist  to  the  extremity  of  the  lists,  so  as  to  touch 
the  palisade  with  his  person  or  arms,  such  opponent  was  obliged  to  yield  himself 
vanquished,  and  his  armor  and  horse  were  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  conqueror. 
A  knight  thus  overcome  was  not  permitted  to  take  further  share  in  the  combat.  If 
any  combatant  was  struck  down,  and  unable  to  recover  his  feet,  his  squire  or  page 
might  enter  the  lists,  and  drag  his  master  out  of  the  press ;  but  in  that  case  the 
knight  was  adjudged  vanquished,  and  his  arms  and  horse  declared  forfeited, 
combat  was  to  cease  as  soon  as  Prince  John  should  throw  down  his  leading  staff,  or 
truncheon  ;  another  precaution  usually  taken  to  prevent  the  unnecessary  effusion 
of  blood  by  the  too  long  endurance  of  a  sport  so  desperate.  Any  knight  breaking 
the  rules  of  the  tournament,  or  otherwise  transgressing  the  rules  of  honorable 


334  THE     TO  URN  A  ME  NT. 

chivalry,  was  liable  to  be  stript  of  his  arms,  and,  having  his  shield  reversed,  to  be 
placed  in  that  posture  astride  upon  the  bars  of  the  palisade,  and  exposed  to  public 
derision,  in  punishment  of  his  unknightly  conduct.  Having  announced  these  pre- 
cautions, the  heralds  concluded  with  an  exhortation  to  each  good  knight  to  do  his 
duty,  and  to  merit  favor  from  the  Queen  of  Beauty  and  Love. 

This  proclamation  having  been  made,  the  heralds  withdrew  to  their  stations. 
The  knights,  entering  at  either  end  of  the  lists  in  long  procession,  arranged  them- 
selves in  a  double  file,  precisely  opposite  to  each  other,  the  leader  of  each  party 
being  in  the  center  of  the  foremost  rank,  a  post  which  he  did  not  occupy  until  each 
had  carefully  arranged  the  ranks  of  his  party,  and  stationed  every  one  in  his 
place. 

It  was  a  goodly,  and  at  the  same  time  an  anxious  sight,  to  behold  so  many 
gallant  champions,  mounted  bravely,  and  armed  richly,  stand  ready  prepared  for  an 
encounter  so  formidable,  seated  on  their  war-saddles  like  so  many  pillars  of  iron, 
and  awaiting  the  signal  of  encounter  with  the  same  ardor  as  their  generous  steeds, 
which,  by  neighing  and  pawing  the  ground,  gave  signal  of  their  impatience. 

As  yet  the  knights  held  their  long  lances  upright,  their  bright  points  glancing 
to  the  sun,  and  the  streamers  with  which  they  were  decorated  fluttering  over  the 
plumage  of  the  helmets.  Thus  they  remained  while  the  marshals  of  the  field  sur- 
veyed their  ranks  with  the  utmost  exactness,  lest  either  party  had  more  or  fewer 
than  the  appointed  number.  The  tale  was  found  exactly  complete.  The  marshals 
then  withdrew  from  the  lists,  and  William  de  Wyvil,  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  pro- 
nounced the  signal  words  —  Laissez  aller  !  The  trumpets  sounded  as  he  spoke  — 
the  spears  of  the  champions  were  at  once  lowered  and  placed  in  the  rests  —  the 
spurs  were  dashed  into  the  flanks  of  the  horses,  and  the  two  foremost  ranks  of 
either  party  rushed  upon  each  other  in  full  gallop,  and  met  in  the  middle  of  the 
lists  with  a  shock,  the  sound  of  which  was  heard  at  a  mile's  distance.  The  rear 
rank  of  each  party  advanced  at  a  slower  pace  to  sustain  the  defeated,  and  follow  up 
the  success  of  the  victors  of  their  party. 

The  consequences  of  the  encounter  was  not  instantly  seen,  for  the  dust  raised 
by  the  tramping  of  so  many  steeds  darkened  the  air,  and  it  was  a  minute  ere  the 
anxious  spectators  could  see  the  fate  of  the  encounter.  When  the  fight  became 
visible,  half  the  knights  on  each  side  were  dismounted,  some  by  the  dexterity  of 
their  adversary's  lance,  —  some  by  the  superior  weight  and  strength  of  opponents, 
which  had  borne  down  both  horse  and  man,  —  some  lay  stretched  on  earth  as  if 
never  more  to  rise,  —  some  had  already  gained  their  feet,  and  were  closing  hand 
to  hand  with  those  of  their  antagonists  who  were  in  the  same  predicament,  —  and 
several  on  both  sides,  who  had  received  wounds  by  which  they  were  disabled,  were 
stopping  their  blood  by  their  scarfs,  and  endeavoring  to  extricate  themselves  from 
the  tumult.  The  mounted  knights,  whose  lances  had  been  almost  all  broken  by 
the  fury  of  the  encounter,  were  now  closely  engaged  with  their  swords,  shouting 
their  war-cries,  and  exchanging  buffets,  as  if  honor  and  life  depended  on  the  issue 
of  the  combat. 

The  tumult  was  presently  increased  by  the  advance  of  the  second  rank  on 


THE     TOURNAMENT.  335 

either  side,  which,  acting  as  a  reserve,  now  rushed  on  to  aid  their  companions. 
The  followers  of  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert  shouted  — "  Ha  !  Beau-seant  I  Beau- 
seant !  *  —  For  the  Temple — For  the  Temple!"  The  opposite  party  shouted 
in  answer  —  Desdichado  !  Desdichado!" —  which  watchword  they  took  from  the 
motto  upon  their  leader's  shield. 

The  champions  thus  encountering  each  other  with  the  utmost  fury,  and  with 
alternate  success,  the  tide  of  battle  seemed  to  flow  now  toward  the  southern,  now 
toward  the  northern  extremity  of  the  lists,  as  the  one  or  the  other  party  prevailed. 
Meantime  the  clang  of  the  blows,  and  the  shouts  of  the  combatants,  mixed  fearfully 
with  the  sound  of  the  trumpets,  and  drowned  the  groans  of  those  who  fell,  and  lay 
rolling  defenseless  beneath  the  feet  of  the  horses.  The  splendid  armor  of  the  com- 
batants was  now  defaced  with  dust  and  blood,  and  gave  way  at  every  stroke  of  the 
sword  and  battle-axe.  The  gay  plumage,  shorn  from  the  crests,  drifted  upon  the 
breeze  like  snow-flakes.  All  that  was  beautiful  and  graceful  in  the  martial  array 
had  disappeared,  and  what  was  now  visible  was  only  calculated  to  awake  terror  or 
compassion. 

Yet  such  is  the  force  of  habit,  that  not  only  the  vulgar  spectators,  who  are 
naturally  attracted  by  sights  of  horror,  but  even  the  ladies  of  distinction,  who 
crowded,  the  galleries,  saw  the  conflict  with  a  thrilling  interest  certainly,  but  without 
a  wish  to  withdraw  their  eyes  from  a  sight  so  terrible.  Here  and  there,  indeed,  a 
fair  cheek  might  turn  pale,  or  a  faint  scream  might  be  heard,  as  a  lover,  a  brother, 
or  a  husband,  was  struck  from  his  horse.  But,  in  general,  the  ladies  around  en- 
couraged the  combatants,  not  only  by  clapping  their  hands  and  waving  their  veils 
and  kerchiefs,  but  even  by  exclaiming,  "  Brave  lance  !  Good  sword  ! "  when  any 
successful  thrust  or  blow  took  place  under  their  observation. 

Such  being  the  interest  taken  by  the  fair  sex  in  this  bloody  game,  that  of  the 
men  is  the  more  easily  understood.  It  showed  itself  in  loud  acclamations  upon 
every  change  of  fortune,  while  all  eyes  were  so  riveted  on  the  lists,  that  the  specta- 
tors seemed  as  if  they  themselves  had  dealt  and  received  the  blows  which  were 
there  so  freely  bestowed.  And  between  every  pause  was  heard  the  voice  of  the 
heralds,  exclaiming,  "  Fight  on,  brave  knights  !  Man  dies,  but  glory  lives  !  — 
Fight  on  —  death  is  better  than  defeat ! — Fight  on,  brave  knights  ! — for  bright 
eyes  behold  your  deeds." 

Amid  the  varied  fortunes  of  the  combat,  the  eyes  of  all  endeavored  to  discover 
the  leaders  of  each  band,  who,  mingling  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  encouraged  their 
companions  both  by  voice  and  example.  Both  displayed  great  feats  of  gallantry, 
nor  did  either  Bois-Guilbert  or  the  Disinherited  Knight  find  in  the  ranks  opposed 
to  them  a  champion  who  could  be  termed  their  unquestioned  match.  They  re- 
peatedly endeavored  to  single  out  each  other,  spurred  by  mutual  animosity,  and 
aware  that  the  fall  of  either  leader  might  be  considered  as  decisive  of  victory. 
Such,  however,  was  the  crowd  and  confusion,  that  during  the  earlier  part  of  the 
conflict,  their  efforts  to  meet  were  unavailing,  and  they  were  repeatedly  separated 

»  Beau-seant  was  the  name  of  the  Templars'  banner,  which  was  half-black,  half-white,  to  intimate,  it  is  said,  that  they  were  can- 
did and  fair  towards  Christians,  but  black  and  terrible  towards  infidels. 


336  THE     TOUR  NA  ME  NT. 

by  the  eagerness  of  their  followers,  each  of  whom  was  anxious  to  win  honor,  by 
measuring  his  strength  against  the  leader  of  the  opposite  party. 

But  when  the  field  became  thin  by  the  number  on  either  side  who  had  yielded 
themselves  vanquished,  had  been  compelled  to  the  extremity  of  the  lists,  or  been 
otherwise  rendered  incapable  of  continuing  the  strife,  the  Templar  and  the  Disin- 
herited Knight  at  length  encountered  hand  to  hand,  with  all  the  fury  that  mortal 
animosity,  joined  to  rivalry  of  honor,  could  inspire.  Such  was  the  address  of  each 
in  parrying  and  striking,  that  the  spectators  broke  forth  into  a  unanimous  and  in- 
voluntary shout,  expressive  of  their  delight  and  admiration. 

But  at  this  moment  the  party  of  the  Disinherited  Knight  had  the  worst  ;  the 
gigantic  arm  of  Front-de-Boeuf  on  the  flank,  and  the  ponderous  strength  of  Athel- 
stane  on  the  other,  bearing  down  and  dispersing  those  immediately  exposed  to 
them.  Finding  themselves  freed  from  their  immediate  antagonists,  it  seemed  to 
have  occurred  to  both  these  knights  at  the  same  instant,  that  they  would  render 
the  most  decisive  advantage  to  their  party,  by  aiding  the  Templar  in  his  contest 
with  his  rival.  Turning  their  horses,  therefore,  at  the  same  moment,  the  Norman 
spurred  against  the  Disinherited  Knight  on  the  one  side,  and  the  Saxon  on  the 
other.  It  was  utterly  impossible  that  the  object  of  this  unequal  and  unexpected 
assault  could  have  sustained  it,  had  he  not  been  warned  by  a  general  cry  from  the 
spectators,  who  could  not  but  take  interest  in  one  exposed  to  such  disadvantage. 

"  Beware !  Beware  !  Sir  Disinherited  !  "  was  shouted  so  universally,  that  the 
knight  became  aware  of  his  danger  ;  and  striking  a  full  blow  at  the  Templar,  he 
reined  back  his  steed  in  the  same  moment,  so  as  to  escape  the  charge  of  Athelstane 
and  Front-de-Boeuf.  These  knights,  therefore,  their  aim  being  thus  eluded,  rushed 
from  opposite  sides  betwixt  the  object  of  their  attack  and  the  Templar,  almost 
running  their  horses  against  each  other  ere  they  could  stop  their  career.  Recover- 
ing their  horses,  however,  and  wheeling  them  round,  the  whole  three  pursued 
their  united  purpose  of  bearing  to  the  earth  the  Disinherited  Knight. 

Nothing  could  have  saved  him,  except  the  remarkable  strength  and  activity  of 
his  noble  horse  which  he  had  won  on  the  preceding  day. 

This  stood  him  in  the  more  stead,  as  the  horse  of  Bois-Guilbert  was  wounded, 
and  those  of  Front-de-Boeuf  and  Athelstane  were  both  tired  with  the  weight  of  their 
gigantic  masters,  clad  in  complete  armor,  and  with  the  preceding  exertions  of  the 
day.  The  masterly  horsemanship  of  the  Disinherited  Knight,  and  the  activity  of  the 
noble  animal  which  he  mounted,  enabled  him  for  a  few  minutes  to  keep  at  sword's 
point  his  three  antagonists,  turning  and  wheeling  with  the  agility  of  a  hawk  upon 
the  wing,  keeping  his  enemies  as  far  separate  as  he  could,  and  rushing  now  against 
the  one,  now  against  the  other,  dealing  sweeping  blows  with  his  sword,  without 
waiting  to  receive  those  which  were  aimed  at  him  in  return. 

But  although  the  lists  rang  with  the  applauses  of  his  dexterity,  it  was  evident 
that  he  must  at  last  be  overpowered ;  and  the  nobles  around  Prince  John  implored 
him  with  one  voice  to  throw  down  his  warder,  and  to  save  so  brave  a  knight  from 
the  disgrace  of  being  overcome  by  odds. 

1  Not  I,  by  the  light  of  Heaven  ! "  answered  Prince  John  ;  "  this  same  springal, 


THE     TOURNAMENT.  337 

who  conceals  his  name,  and  despises  our  proffered  hospitality,  hath  already  gained 
one  prize,  and  may  now  afford  to  let  others  have  their  turn."  As  he  spoke  thus, 
an  unexpected  incident  changed  the  fortune  of  the  day. 

There  was  among  the  ranks  of  the  Disinherited  Knight,  a  champion  in  black 
armor,  mounted  on  a  black  horse,  large  of  size,  tall,  and  to  all  appearance  powerful 
and  strong,  like  the  rider  by  whom  he  was  mounted.  This  knight,  who  bore  on 
his  shield  no  device  of  any  kind,  had  hitherto  evinced  very  little  interest  in  the 
event  of  the  fight,  beating  off  with  seeming  ease  those  combatants  who  attacked 
him,  but  neither  pursuing  his  advantages,  nor  himself  assailing  any  one.  In  short, 
he  had  hitherto  acted  the  part  rather  of  a  spectator  than  of  a  party  in  the  tourna- 
ment, a  circumstance  which  procured  him  among  the  spectators  the  name  of  Le 
Noir  Faineant,  or  the  Black  Sluggard. 

At  once  this  knight  seemed  to  throw  aside  his  apathy,  when  he  discovered  the 
leader  of  his  party  so  hard  bestead  ;  for,  setting  spurs  to  his  horse,  which  was  quite 
fresh,  he  came  to  his  assistance  like  a  thunderbolt,  exclaiming  in  a  voice  like  a 
trumpet-call,  "  Desdichado,  to  the  rescue  !  "  It  was  high  time,  for,  while  the  Disin- 
herited Knight  was  pressing  upon  the  Templar,  Front-de-Bceuf  had  got  nigh  to  him 
with  his  uplifted  sword  ;  but  ere  the  blow  could  descend,  the  Sable  Knight  dealt  a 
stroke  on  his  head,  which,  glancing  from  the  polished  helmet  lighted  with  violence 
scarcely  abated  on  the  chafron  of  the  steed,  and  Front-de-Boeuf  rolled  on  the  ground, 
both  horse  and  man  equally  stunned  by  the  fury  of  the  blow.  Le  Noir  Faineant 
then  turned  his  horse  upon  Athelstane  of  Coningsburgh  ;  and  his  own  sword  hav- 
ing been  broken  in  the  encounter  with  Front-de-Boeuf,  he  wrenched  from  the  hand 
of  the  bulky  Saxon  the  battle-axe  which  he  wielded,  and,  like  one  familiar  with  the 
use  of  the  weapon,  bestowed  him  such  a  blow  upon  the  crest,  that  Athelstane  also 
lay  senseless  on  the  field.  Having  achieved  this  double  feat,  for  which  he  was  the 
more  highly  applauded  that  it  was  totally  unexpected  from  him,  the  knight  seemed 
to  resume  the  sluggishness  of  his  character,  returning  calmly  to  the  northern  ex- 
tremity of  the  lists,  leaving  his  leader  to  cope  as  he  best  could  with  Brian  de  Bois- 
Guilbert.  This  was  no  longer  matter  of  so  much  difficulty  as  formerly.  The 
Templar's  horse  had  bled  much,  and  gave  way  under  the  shock  of  the  Disinherited 
Knight's  charge.  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert  rolled  on  the  field,  encumbered  with  the 
stirrup,  from  which  he  was  unable  to  draw  his  foot.  His  antagonist  sprung  from 
horseback,  waved  his  fatal  sword  over  the  head  of  his  adversary,  and  commanded 
him  to  yield  himself  ;  when  Prince  John,  more  moved  by  the  Templar's  dangerous 
situation  than  he  had  been  by  that  of  his  rival,  saved  him  the  mortification  of 
confessing  himself  vanquished,  by  casting  down  his  warder,  and  putting  an  end  to 
the  conflict. 

It  was,  indeed,  only  the  relics  and  embers  of  the  fight  which  continued  to  burn  ; 
for  of  the  few  knights  who  still  continued  in  the  lists,  the  greater  part  had,  by  tacit 
consent,  forborne  the  conflict  for  some  time,  leaving  it  to  be  determined  by  the 
strife  of  the  leaders. 

The  squires,  who  had  found  it  a  matter  of  danger  and  difficulty  to  attend  their 
masters  during  the  engagement,  now  thronged  into  the  lists  to  pay  their  dutiful 


338  THE     CULTURE     OF    THE    PURITANS. 

attendance  to  the  wounded,  who  were  removed  with  the  utmost  care  and  attention 
to  the  neighboring  pavilions,  or  to  the  quarters  prepared  for  them  in  the  adjoining 
village. 

Thus  ended  the  memorable  field  of  Ashby-de-la-Zouche,  one  of  the  most  gal- 
lantly contested  tournaments  of  that  age  ;  for  although  only  four  knights,  including 
one  who  was  smothered  by  the  heat  of  his  armor,  that  died  upon  the  field,  yet  up- 
wards of  thirty  were  desperately  wounded,  four  or  five  of  whom  never  recovered. 
Several  more  were  disabled  for  life  ;  and  those  who  escaped  best  carried  the  marks 
of  the  conflict  to  the  grave  with  them.  Hence  it  is  always  mentioned  in  the  old 
records,  as  the  Gentle  and  Joyous  Passage  of  Arms  of  Ashby. 

It  being  now  the  duty  of  Prince  John  to  name  the  knight  who  had  done  best, 
he  determined  that  the  honor  of  the  day  remained  with  the  knight  whom  the 
popular  voice  had  termed  Le  Noir  Faineant.  It  was  pointed  out  to  the  Prince,  in 
impeachment  of  this  decree,  that  the  victory  had  been  in  fact  won  by  the  Disin- 
herited Knight,  who,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  had  overcome  six  champions  with 
his  own  hand,  and  who  had  finally  unhorsed  and  struck  down  the  leader  of  the 
opposite  party.  But  Prince  John  adhered  to  his  own  opinion,  on  the  ground  that  the 
Disinherited  Knight  and  his  party  had  lost  the  day,  but  for  the  powerful  assistance 
of  the  Knight  of  the  Black  Armor,  to  whom,  therefore,  he  persisted  in  awarding 
the  prize. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


THE     CULTURE     OF     THE     PURITANS. 

WHATEVER  may  have  taken  place  later,  the  Puritanism  of  the  first  forty  years  of 
the  seventeenth  century  was  not  tainted  with  degrading  or  ungraceful  associations 
of  any  sort.  The  rank,  the  wealth,  the  chivalry,  the  genius,  the  learning,  the 
accomplishments,  the  social  refinements  and  elegance  of  the  time,  were  largely  rep- 
resented in  its  ranks.  Not  to  speak  of  Scotland,  where  soon  Puritanism  had  few 
opponents  in  the  class  of  the  high-born  and  the  educated,  the  severity  of  Elizabeth 
scarcely  restrained,  in  her  latter  days,  its  predominance  among  the  most  exalted 
orders  of  her  subjects.  The  Earls  of  Leicester,  Bedford,  Huntingdon  and  Warwick, 
Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  his  greater  son,  Walsingham,  Burleigh,  Mildmay,  Sadler, 
Knollys,  were  specimens  of  a  host  of  eminent  men  more  or  less  friendly  to  or 
tolerant  of  it.  Throughout  the  reign  of  James  the  First,  it  controlled  the  House 
of  Commons,  composed  chiefly  of 'the  landed  gentry  of  the  kingdom  ;  and  if  it  had 
less  sway  among  the  Peers,  this  was  partly  because  the  number  of  lay  nobles  did 
not  largely  exceed  that  of  the  Bishops,  who  were  mostly  creatures  of  the  crown. 
The  aggregate  property  of  that  Puritan  House  of  Commons,  whose  dissolution  has 
been  just  now  related,  was  computed  to  be  three  times  as  great  as  that  of  the  Lords. 
The  statesmen  of  the  first  period  of  that  Parliament,  which  by  and  by  dethroned 


THE     CULTURE     OF    THE    PURITANS. 


339 


Charles  the  First,  had  been  bred  in  the  luxury  of  the  landed  aristocracy  of  the  realm  ; 
while  of  the  nobility,  Manchester,  Essex,  Warwick,  Brooke,  Fairfax,  and  others,  and 
of  the  gentry,  a  long  roll  of  men  of  the  scarcely  inferior  position  of  Hampden  and 
Waller,  commanded  and  officered  its  armies  and  fleets.  A  Puritan  was  the  first 
Protestant  founder  of  a  college  at  an  English  University.  Among  the  clergy,  rep- 
resenting mainly  the  scholarship  of  the  country,  nothing  is  more  incontrovertible 
than  that  the  permanent  ascendency  of  Puritanism  was  only  prevented  by  the  severi- 
ties of  the  governments  of  Elizabeth  and  her  Scottish  kinsmen  under  the  several 
administrations  of  Parker,  Whitgift,  Bancroft,  and  Laud. 

It  may  be  easily  believed  that  none  of  the  guests  whom  the  Earl  of  Leicester 
placed  at  his  table  by  the  side  of  his  nephew,  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  were  clowns.  But 
the  supposition  of  any  necessary  connection  between  Puritanism  and  what  is  harsh 
and  rude  in  taste  and  manners  will  not  even  stand  the  test  of  an  observation  of  the 
character  of  men  who  figured  in  its  ranks,  when  the  lines  came  to  be  most  dis- 
tinctly drawn.  The  Parliamentary  general,  Devereux,  Earl  of  Essex,  was  no  strait- 
laced  gospeller,  but  a  man  formed  with  every  grace  of  person,  mind,  and  culture,  to 
be  the  ornament  of  a  splendid  court,  the  model  knight  —  the  idol,  as  long  as  he  was 
the  comrade,  of  the  royal  soldiery  —  the  Bayard  of  the  time.  The  position  of 
Manchester  and  Fairfax,  of  Hollis,  Fiennes  and  Pierrepont,  was  by  birthright  in 
the  most  polished  circle  of  English  society.  In  the  memoirs  of  the  young  regicide, 
Colonel  Hutchinson,  recorded  by  his  beautiful  and  gentle  wife,  we  may  look  at  the 
interior  of  a  Puritan  household,  and  see  its  graces,  divine  and  human,  as  they  shone 
with  a  naturally  blended  luster  in  the  most  strenuous  and  most  afflicted  times.  The 
renown  of  English  learning  owes  something  to  the  sect  which  enrolled  the  names 
of  Seldon,  Lightfoot,  Gale,  and  Owen.  Its  seriousness  and  depth  of  thought  had 
lent  their  inspiration  to  the  delicate  muse  of  Spenser.  Judging  between  their 
colleague  preachers,  Travers,  and  Hooker,  the  critical  Templars  awarded  the  palm 
of  scholarly  eloquence  to  the  Puritan.  When  the  Puritan  lawyer  Whitelock  was 
ambassador  to  Queen  Christina,  he  kept  a  magnificent  state,  which  was  the  admira- 
tion of  her  court,  perplexed  as  they  were  by  his  persistant  Puritanical  testimony 
against  the  practise  of  drinking  healths.  For  his  Latin  Secretary,  the  Puritan  Pro- 
tector employed  a  man  at  once  equal  to  the  foremost  of  mankind  in  genius  and 
learning,  and  skilled  in  all  manly  exercises,  proficient  in  the  lighter  accomplishments 
beyond  any  other  Englishman  of  his  day,  and  caressed  in  his  youth,  in  France  and 
Italy,  for  eminence  in  the  studies  of  their  fastidious  scholars  and  artists.  The 
king's  camp  and  court  at  Oxford  had  not  a  better  swordsman  or  amateur  musician 
than  John  Milton,  and  his  portraits  exhibit  him  with  locks  as  flowing  as  Prince 
Rupert's.  In  such  trifles  as  the  fashion  of  apparel,  the  usage  of  the  best  modern 
society  vindicates,  in  characteristic  particulars,  the  Roundhead  judgment  and  taste 
of  the  century  before  the  last.  The  English  gentleman  now,  as  the  Puritan  gentle- 
man then,  dresses  plainly  in  "  sad  "  colors,  and  puts  his  lace  and  embroidery  on  his 
servants. 

JOHN  GORHAM  PALFREY. 


34o  ££SS    AND     THE    SNAKE. 


BESS     AND     THE     SNAKE. 

"HE  does  not  come, — he  does  not  come,"  she  murmured,  as  she  stood  con- 
templating the  thick  copse  spreading  before  her,  and  forming  the  barrier  which 
terminated  the  beautiful  range  of  oaks  which  constituted  the  grove.  How  beauti- 
ful was  the  green  and  garniture  of  that  little  copse  of  wood  !  The  leaves  were 
thick,  and  the  grass  around  lay  folded  over  and  over  in  bunches,  with  here  and 
there  a  wild  flower  gleaming  from  its  green  and  making  of  it  a  beautiful  carpet 
of  the  richest  and  most  various  texture.  A  small  tree  rose  from  the  center  of  a 
clump  around  which  a  wild  grape  gadded  luxuriantly  ;  and,  with  an  incoherent  sense 
of  what  she  saw,  she  lingered  before  the  little  cluster,  seeming  to  survey  that 
which,  though  it  seemed  to  fix  her  eye,  yet  failed  to  fill  her  thought.  Her  mind 
wandered,  —  her  soul  was  far  away ;  and  the  objects  in  her  vision  were  far  other 
than  those  which  occupied  her  imagination.  Things  grew  indistinct  beneath  her 
eye.  The  eye  rather  slept  than  saw.  The  musing  spirit  had  given  holiday  to  the 
ordinary  senses,  and  took  no  heed  of  the  forms  that  rose,  and  floated,  or  glided 
away,  before  them.  In  this  way,  the  leaf  detached  made  no  impression  upon  the 
sight  that  was  yet  bent  upon  it ;  she  saw  not  the  bird,  though  it  whirled,  untroubled 
by  a  fear,  in  wanton  circles  around  her  head,  —  and  the  black  snake,  with  the 
rapidity  of  an  arrow,  darted  over  her  path  without  arousing  a  single  terror  in 
the  form  that  otherwise  would  have  shivered  at  its  mere  appearance.  And  yet, 
though  thus  indistinct  were  all  things  around  her  to  the  musing  mind  of  the 
maiden,  her  eye  was  yet  singularly  fixed,  —  fastened,  as  it  were,  to  a  single  spot, 
gathered  and  controlled  by  a  single  object,  and  glazed,  apparently,  beneath  a 
curious  fascination. 

Before  the  maiden  rose  a  little  clump  of  bushes,  —  bright  tangled  leaves  flaunt- 
ing wide  in  glossiest  green,  with  vines  trailing  over  them,  thickly  decked  with  blue 
and  crimson  flowers.  Her  eye  communed  vacantly  with  these;  fastened  by  a  star- 
like  shining  glance,  —  a  subtle  ray,  that  shot  out  from  the  circle  of  green  leaves, 
—  seeming  to  be  their  very  eye,  —  and  sending  out  a  fluid  luster  that  seemed  to 
stream  across  the  space  between,  and  find  its  way  into  her  own  eyes.  Very  pierc- 
ing and  beautiful  was  that  subtle  brightness,  of  the  sweetest,  strangest  power. 
And  now  the  leaves  quivered  and  seemed  to  float  away,  only  to  return,  and  the 
vines  waved  and  swung  around  in  fantastic  mazes,  unfolding  ever-changing  varieties 
of  form  and  color  to  her  gaze  ;  but  the  star-like  eye  was  ever  steadfast,  bright  and 
gorgeous  gleaming  in  their  midst,  and  still  fastened,  with  strange  fondness,  upon 
her  own.  How  beautiful,  with  wondrous  intensity,  did  it  gleam,  and  dilate,  growing 
larger  and  more  lustrous  with  every  ray  which  it  sent  forth  !  And  her  own  glance 
became  intense,  fixed  also  ;  but,  with  a  dreaming  sense  that  conjured  up  the  wildest 
fancies,  terribly  beautiful,  that  took  her  soul  away  from  her,  and  wrapt  it  about  as 
with  a  spell.  She  would  have  fled,  she  would  have  flown  ;  but  she  had  not  power 
to  move.  The  will  was  wanting  to  her  flight.  She  felt  that  she  could  have  bent 


AND     THE    SNAKE.  341 

forward  to  pluck  the  gem-like  thing  from  the  bosom  of  the  leaf  in  which  it  seemed 
to  grow,  and  which  it  irradiated  with  its  bright  white  gleam  ;  but  ever  as  she  aimed 
to  stretch  forth  her  hand  and  bend  forward,  she  heard  a  rush  of  wings  and  a  shrill 
scream  from  the  tree  above  her,  —  such  a  scream  as  the  mock-bird  makes,  when, 
angrily,  it  raises  its  dusky  crest  and  flaps  its  wings  furiously  against  its  slender 
sides.  Such  a  scream  seemed  like  a  warning,  and,  though  yet  unawakened  to  full 
consciousness,  it  startled  her  and  forbade  her  effort.  More  than  once,  in  her  sur- 
vey of  this  strange  object,  had  she  heard  that  shrill  note,  and  still  had  it  carried 
to  her  ear  the  same  note  of  warning,  and  to  her  mind  the  same  vague  conscious- 
ness of  an  evil  presence.  But  the  star-like  eye  was  yet  upon  her  own,  —  a  small, 
bright  eye,  quick  like  that  of  a  bird,  now  steady  in  its  place  and  observant  seem- 
ingly only  of  hers,  now  darting  forward  with  all  the  clustering  leaves  about  it,  and 
shooting  up  towards  her,  as  if  wooing  her  to  seize.  At  another  moment,  riveted 
to  the  vine  which  lay  around  it,  it  would  whirl  round  and  round,  dazzlingly  bright 
and  beautiful,  even  as  a  torch  waving  hurriedly  by  night  in  the  hands  of  some 
playful  boy ;  but,  in  all  this  time,  the  glance  was  never  taken  from  her  own  :  there 
it  grew,  fixed,  — a  very  principle  of  light,  — and  such  a  light,  — a  subtle,  burning, 
piercing,  fascinating  gleam,  such  as  gathers  in  vapor  above  the  old  grave,  and 
blinds  us  as  we  look,  —  shooting,  darting  directly  into  her  eye,  dazzling  her  gaze, 
defeating  its  sense  of  discrimination,  and  confusing  strangely  that  of  perception. 
She  felt  dizzy  ;  for,  as  she  looked,  a  cloud  of  colors,  bright,  gay,  various  colors, 
floated  and  hung  like  so  much  drapery  around  the  single  object  that  had  so  secured 
her  attention  and  spellbound  her  feet.  Her  limbs  felt  momently  more  and  more 
insecure  —  her  blood  grew  cold,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  the  gradual  freeze  of  vein 
by  vein  throughout  her  person. 

At  that  moment  a  rustling  was  heard  in  the  branches  of  the  tree  beside  her, 
and  the  bird,  which  had  repeatedly  uttered  a  single  cry  above  her,  as  it  were  of 
warning,  flew  away  from  his  station  with  a  scream  more  piercing  than  ever.  This 
movement  had  the  effect,  for  which  it  really  seemed  intended,  of  bringing  back  to 
her  a  portion  of  the  consciousness  she  seemed  so  totally  to  have  been  deprived  of 
before.  She  strove  to  move  from  before  the  beautiful  but  terrible  presence,  but  for 
a  while  she  strove  in  vain.  The  rich,  star-like  glance  still  riveted  her  own,  and 
the  subtle  fascination  kept  her  bound.  The  mental  energies,  however,  with  the 
moment  of  their  greatest  trial,  now  gathered  suddenly  to  her  aid  ;  and,  with  a 
desperate  effort,  but  with  a  feeling  still  of  most  annoying  uncertainty  and  dread, 
she  succeeded  partially  in  the  attempt,  and  threw  her  arms  backwards,  her  hands 
grasping  the  neighboring  tree,  feeble,  tottering,  and  depending  upon  it  for  that 
support  which  her  own  limbs  almost  entirely  denied  her.  With  her  movement, 
however,  came  the  full  development  of  the  powerful  spell  and  dreadful  mystery 
before  her.  As  her  feet  receded,  though  but  a  single  pace,  to  the  tree  against 
which  she  now  rested,  the  audibly-articulated  ring,  like  that  of  a  watch  when  wound 
up  with  the  verge  broken,  announced  the  nature  of  that  splendid  yet  dangerous 
presence,  in  the  form  of  the  monstrous  rattlesnake,  now  but  a  few  feet  before  her, 
lying  coiled  at  the  bottom  of  a  beautiful  shrub,  with  which,  to  her  dreaming  eye, 


342  £ESS    AND     THE    SNAKE. 

many  of  its  own  glorious  hues  had  become  associated.  She  was  at  length  conscious 
enough  to  perceive  and  to  feel  all  her  danger;  but  terror  had  denied  her  the 
strength  necessary  to  fly  from  her  dreadful  enemy.  There  still  the  eye  glared 
beautifully  bright  and  piercing  upon  her  own  ;  and,  seemingly  in  a  spirit  of  sport, 
the  insidious  reptile  slowly  unwound  himself  from  his  coil,  but  only  to  gather  him- 
self up  again  into  his  muscular  rings,  his  great  flat  head  rising  in  the  midst,  and 
slowly  nodding,  as  it  were,  towards  her,  the  eye  still  peering  deeply  into  her  own  ; 
—  the  rattle  still  slightly  ringing  at  intervals,  and  giving  forth  that  paralyzing  sound, 
which,  once  heard,  is  remembered  forever. 

The  reptile  all  this  while  appeared  to  be  conscious  of,  and  to  sport  with,  while 
seeking  to  excite,  her  terrors.  Now,  with  its  flat  head,  distended  mouth,  and  curving 
neck,  would  it  dart  forward  its  long  form  towards  her,  —  its  fatal  teeth,  unfolding 
on  either  side  of  its  upper  jaw,  seeming  to  threaten  her  with  instantaneous  death, 
while  its  powerful  eye  shot  forth  glances  of  that  fatal  power  of  fascination,  malig- 
nantly bright,  which,  by  paralyzing,  with  a  novel  form  of  terror  and  of  beauty,  may 
readily  account  for  the  spell  it  possesses  of  binding  the  feet  of  the  timid,  and  deny- 
ing to  fear  even  the  privilege  of  flight.  Could  she  have  fled !  She  felt  the 
necessity  ;  but  the  power  of  her  limbs  was  gone  !  and  there  still  it  lay,  coiling  and 
uncoiling,  its  arching  neck  glittering  like  a  ring  of  brazed  copper,  bright  and  lurid  ; 
and  the  dreadful  beauty  of  its  eye  still  fastened,  eagerly  contemplating  the  victim, 
while  the  pendulous  rattle  still  rang  the  death-note,  as  if  to  prepare  the  conscious  mind 
for  the  fate  which  is  momently  approaching  to  the  blow.  Meanwhile  the  stillness 
became  death-like  with  all  surrounding  objects.  The  bird  had  gone  with  its  scream 
and  rush.  The  breeze  was  silent.  The  vines  ceased  to  wave.  The  leaves  faintly 
quivered  on  their  stems.  The  serpent  once  more  lay  still  ;  but  the  eye  was  never 
once  turned  away  from  the  victim.  Its  corded  muscles  are  all  in  coil.  They  have 
but  to  unclasp  suddenly,  and  the  dreadful  folds  will  be  upon  her,  its  full  length, 
and  the  fatal  teeth  will  strike,  and  the  deadly  venom  which  they  secrete  will  mingle 
with  the  life-blood  in  her  veins. 

The  terrified  damsel,  her  full  consciousness  restored,  but  not  her  strength,  feels 
all  the  danger.  She  sees  that  the  sport  of  the  terrible  reptile  is  at  an  end.  She 
cannot  now  mistake  the  horrid  expression  of  its  eye.  She  strives  to  scream,  but  the 
voice  dies  away,  a  feeble  gurgling  in  her  throat.  Her  tongue  is  paralyzed  ;  her  lips 
are  sealed  ;  once  more  she  strives  for  flight,  but  her  limbs  refuse  their  office.  She 
has  nothing  left  of  life  but  its  fearful  consciousness.  It  is  in  her  despair  that,  a 
last  effort,  she  succeeds  to  scream,  a  single  wild  cry,  forced  from  her  by  the  accu- 
mulated agony  ;  she  sinks  down  upon  the  grass  before  her  enemy,  — her  eyes,  how- 
ever, still  open,  and  still  looking  upon  those  which  he  directs  forever  upon  them.  She 
sees  him  approach,  —  now  advancing,  now  receding,  —  now  swelling  in  every  part 
with  something  of  anger,  while  his  neck  is  arched  beautifully  like  that  of  a  wild 
horse  under  the  curb  ;  until,  at  length,  tired  as  it  were  of  play,  like  the  cat  with  its 
victim,  she  sees  the  neck  growing  larger  and  becoming  completely  bronzed  as 
about  to  strike,  —  the  huge  jaws  unclosing  almost  directly  above  her,  the  long 
tubulated  fang,  charged  with  venom,  protruding  from  the  cavernous  mouth,  —  and 


HOME.  343 

she  sees  no  more !     Insensibility  came  to  her  aid,  and  she  lay  almost  lifeless  under 
the  very  folds  of  the  monster. 

In  that  moment  the  copse  parted,  — and  an  arrow,  piercing  the  monster  through 
and  through  the  neck,  bore  his  head  forward  to  the  ground,  alongside  of  the  maiden, 
while  his  spiral  extremities,  now  unfolding  in  his  own  agony,  were  actually,  in 
part,  writhing  upon  her  person.  The  arrow  came  from  the  fugitive  Occonestoga, 
who  had  fortunately  reached  the  spot,  in  season,  on  his  way  to  the  Block  House. 
He  rushed  from  the  copse  as  the  snake  fell,  and,  with  a  stick,  fearlessly  approached 
him  where  he  lay  tossing  in  agony  upon  the  grass.  Seeing  him  advance, 
the  courageous  reptile  made  an  effort  to  regain  his  coil,  shaking  the  fearful 
rattle  violently  at  every  evolution  which  he  took  for  that  purpose  ;  but  the  arrow, 
completely  passing  through  his  neck,  opposed  an  unyielding  obstacle  to  the 
endeavor ;  and,  finding  it  hopeless,  and  seeing  the  new  enemy  about  to  assault  him, 
with  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  white  man  under  like  circumstances,  he  turned 
desperately  round,  and  striking  his  charged  fangs,  so  that  they  were  riveted  in  the 
wound  they  made,  into  a  susceptible  part  of  his  own  body,  he  threw  himself  over 
with  a  single  convulsion,  and,  a  moment  after,  lay  dead  beside  the  utterly  unconscious 
maiden. 

WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS. 


HOME. 

THE  home  should  not  be  considered  merely  as  an  eating  and  sleeping  place, 
but  as  a  place  where  self-respect  may  be  preserved,  and  comforts  secured,  and 
domestic  pleasures  enjoyed.  Three  fourths  of  the  petty  vices  which  degrade 
society,  and  swell  into  crimes  which  disgrace  it,  would  shrink  before  the  influence 
of  self-respect.  To  be  a  place  of  happiness,  exercising  beneficial  influences  upon  its 
members,  and  especially  upon  the  children  growing  up  within  it,  the  home  must  be 
pervaded  by  the  spirit  of  comfort,  cleanliness,  affection  and  intelligence.  And  in 
order  to  secure  this,  the  presence  of  a  well-ordered,  industrious  and  educated 
woman  is  indispensable.  So  much  depends  upon  the  woman,  that  we  might  almost 
pronounce  the  happiness  or  unhappiness  of  the  home  to  be  woman's  work.  No 
nation  can  advance  except  through  the  improvement  of  the  nation's  homes  ;  and 
they  can  only  be  improved  through  the  instrumentality  of  woman.  They  must 
know  how  to  make  homes  comfortable;  and  before  they  can  know,  they  must  have 
been  taught. 

Homes  are  the  manufactories  of  men  ;  and  as  the  homes  are,  so  will  the  men 
be.  Mind  will  be  degraded  by  the  physical  influences  around  it,  decency  will  be 
destroyed  by  constant  contact  with  impurity  and  defilement,  and  coarseness  of 
manners,  habits  and  tastes  will  become  inevitable.  You  cannot  rear  a  kindly  nature, 


344  THE     TOWER     OF    LONDON. 

sensitive  against  evil,  careful  of  proprieties,  and  desirous  of  moral  and  intellectual 
improvement,  amidst  the  darkness,  dampness,  disorder  and  discomfort  which  un- 
happily characterize  so  large  a  portion  of  the  dwellings  of  the  poor  in  our  large 
towns  ;  and  until  we  can,  by  some  means  or  other,  improve  their  domestic  accommo- 
dation, their  low  moral  and  social  condition  must  be  regarded  as  inevitable. 

SAMUEL  SMILES. 


THE     TOWER     OF     LONDON. 

MR.  PUNCH,  —  My  Dear  Sir:  —  I  skurcely  need  inform  you  that  your  excellent 
Tower  is  very  pop'lar  with  pe'ple  from  the  agricultooral  districks,  and  it  was  chiefly 
them  class  which  I  found  waitin  at  the  gates  the  other  mornin. 

I  saw  at  once  that  the  Tower  was  established  on  a  firm  basis.  In  the  entire 
history  of  firm  basisis  I  don't  find  a  basis  more  firmer  than  this  one. 

"  You  have  no  Tower  in  America? "  said  a  man  in  the  crowd,  who  had  somehow 
detected  my  denomination. 

"  Alars  !  no,"  I  anserd  ;  "  we  boste  of  our  enterprise  and  improovements,  and  yit 
we  are  devoid  of  a  Tower.  America  oh  my  onhappy  country  !  thou  hast  not  got 
no  Tower!  It's  a  sweet  Boon." 

The  gates  was  opened  after  a  while,  and  we  all  purchist  tickets,  and  went  into 
a  waitin-room. 

"  My  frens,"  said  a  pale-faced  little  man,  in  black  close,  "  this  is  a  sad  day." 

"  Inasmuch  as  to  how  ? "  I  said. 

"  I  mean  it  is  sad  to  think  that  so  many  pe'ple  have  been  killed  within  these 
gloomy  walls.  My  frens,  let  us  drop  a  tear!  " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "you  must  excuse  me.  Others  may  drop  one  if  they  feel  like  it ; 
but  as  for  me,  I  decline.  The  early  managers  of  this  institootion  were  a  bad  lot, 
and  their  crimes  were  trooly  orful  ;  but  I  can't  sob  for  those  who  died  four  or  five 
hundred  years  ago.  If  they  was  my  own  relations  I  couldn't.  It's  absurd  to  shed 
sobs  over  things  which  occurd  during  the  rain  of  Henry  the  Three.  Let  us  be 
cheerful,"  I  continnered.  "  Look  at  the  festiv  Warders,  in  their  red  flannil 
jackets.  They  are  cheerful,  and  why  should  it  not  be  thusly  with  us  ?  " 

A  Warder  now  took  us  in  charge,  and  showed  us  the  Trater's  Gate,  the  armers, 
and  things.  The  Trater's  Gate  is  wide  enuff  to  admit  about  twenty  traters  abrest, 
I  should  jedge;  but  beyond  this,  I  couldn't  see  that  it  was  superior  to  gates  in 
gen'ral. 

Traters,  I  will  here  remark,  are  a  onfornit  class  of  pe'ple.  If  they  wasn't,  they 
wouldn't  be  traters.  They  conspire  to  bust  up  a  country  —  they  fail,  and  they're 
traters.  They  bust  her,  and  they  become  statesmen  and  heroes. 


THE     TOWER     OF    LONDON.  345 

Take  the  case  of  Gloster,  afterwards  Old  Dick  the  Three,  who  may  be  seen  at 
the  Tower  on  horseback,  in  a  heavy  tin  overcoat  —  take  Mr.  Gloster's  case.  Mr. 
G.  was  a  conspirator  of  the  basist  dye,  and  if  he'd  failed,  he  would  have  been  hung 
on  a  sour  apple-tree.  But  Mr.  G.  succeeded,  and  became  great.  He  was  slewed 
by  Col.  Richmond,  but  he  lives  in  history,  and  his  equestrian  figger  may  be  seen 
daily  for  a  sixpence,  in  conjunction  with  other  em'nent  persons,  and  no  extra 
charge  for  the  Warder's  able  and  bootiful  lectur. 

There's  one  king  in  this  room  who  is  mounted  onto  a  foaming  steed,  his  right 
hand  graspin  a  barber's  pole.  I  didn't  learn  his  name. 

The  room  where  the  daggers  and  pistils  and  other  weppins  is  kept  is  interestin. 
Among  this  collection  of  choice  cuttlery  I  notist  the  bow  and  arrer  which  those 
hot-hedded  old  chaps  used  to  conduct  battles  with.  It  is  quite  like  the  bow  and 
arrer  used  at  this  day  by  certain  tribes  of  American  Injuns,  and  they  shoot  'em  off 
with  such  a  excellent  precision  that  I  almost  sigh'd  to  be  an  Injun  when  I  was  in 
the  Rocky  Mountain  regin.  They  are  a  pleasant  lot  them  Injuns.  Mr.  Cooper 
and  Dr.  Catlin  have  told  us  of  the  red  man's  wonerful  eloquence,  and  I  found  it 
so.  Our  party  was  stopt  on  the  plains  of  Utah  by  a  Sand  of  Shoshones,  whose 
chief  said  : 

"  Brothers  !  the  pale-face  is  welcome.  Brothers  !  the  sun  is  sinking  in  the 
west,  and  Wa-na-bucky-she  will  soon  cease  speaking.  Brothers  !  the  poor  red  man 
belongs  to  a  race  which  is  fast  becomin  extink." 

He  then  whooped  in  a  shrill  manner,  stole  all  our  blankets  and  whisky,  and 
fled  to  the  primeval  forest  to  conceal  his  emotions. 

I  will  remark  here,  while  on  the  subjeck  of  Injuns,  that  they  are  in  the  main  a 
very  shaky  set,  with  even  less  sense  than  the  Fenians,  and  when  I  hear  philan- 
thropists bewailin  the  fack  that  every  year  "  carries  the  noble  red  man  nearer  the 
settin  sun,"  I  simply  have  to  say  I'm  glad  of  it,  tho'  it  is  rough  on  the  settin  sun. 
They  call  you  by  the  sweet  name  of  Brother  one  minit,  and  the  next  they  scalp 
you  with  their  Thomas-hawks.  But  I  wander.  Let  us  return  to  the  Tower. 

At  one  end  of  the  room  where  the  weppins  is  kept,  is  a  wax  figger  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  mounted  on  a  fiery  stuffed  hoss,  whose  glass  eye  flashes  with  pride,  and 
whose  red  morocker  nostril  dilates  hawtily,  as  if  conscious  of  the  royal  burden  he 
bears.  I  have  associated  Elizabeth  with  the  Spanish  Armady.  She's  mixed  up  with 
it  at  the  Surrey  Theatre,  where  Troo  to  the  Core  is  bein  acted,  and  in  which  a  full 
bally  core  is  introjooced  on  board  the  Spanish  Admiral's  ship,  giving  the  audiens  the 
idee  that  he  intends  openin  a  moosic-hall  in  Plymouth  the  moment  he  conkers  that 
town.  But  a  very  interesting  drammer  is  Troo  to  the  Core,  notwithstandin  the 
eccentric  conduct  of  the  Spanish  Admiral  ;  and  very  nice  it  is  in  Queen  Elizabeth 
to  make  Martin  Truegold  a  baronet. 

The  Warder  shows  us  some  instrooments  of  tortur,  such  as  thumbscrews,  throat- 
collars,  etc.,  statin  that  these  was  conkered  from  the  Spanish  Armady,  and  addin 
what  a  crooil  pe'ple  the  Spaniards  was  in  them  days  —  which  elissited  from  a 
bright-eyed  little  girl  of  about  twelve  summers  the  remark  that  she  tho't  it  was 
rich  to  talk  about  the  crooilty  of  the  Spaniards  usin  thumbscrews,  when  he  was  in 


346 


THE     TOWER     OF    LONDON. 


a  Tower  where  so  many  poor  people's  heads  had  been  cut  off.  This  made  the 
Warder  stammer  and  turn  red. 

I  was  so  pleased  with  the  little  girl's  brightness  that  I  could  have  kissed  the 
dear  child,  and  I  would  if  she'd  been  six  years  older. 

I  think  my  companions  intended  makin  a  day  of  it,  for  they  all  had  sandwiches, 
sassiges,  etc.  The  sad-lookin  man,  who  had  wanted  us  to  drop  a  tear  afore  we 
started  to  go  round,  fling'd  such  quantities  of  sassige  into  his  mouth  that  I  expected 
to  see  him  choke  hisself  to  death  ;  he  said  to  me,  in  the  Beauchamp  Tower,  where 
the  poor  prisoners  writ  their  onhappy  names  on  the  cold  walls,  "This  is  a  sad 
sight." 

"  It  is  indeed,"  I  anserd.  "  You're  black  in  the  face.  You  shouldn't  eat 
sassige  in  public  without  some  rehearsals  beforehand.  You  manage  it  orkwardly." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  mean  this  sad  room." 

Indeed,  he  was  quite  right.  Tho'  so  long  ago  all  these  drefful  things  happened, 
I  was  very  glad  to  git  away  from  this  gloomy  room,  and  go  where  the  rich  and 


THE    TOWER    OF    LONDON. 


sparklin  Crown  Jewils  is  kept.  I  was  so  pleased  with  the  Queen's  Crown,  that  it 
occurd  to  me  what  a  agree'ble  surprise  it  would  be  to  send  a  sim'lar  one  home  to 
my  wife;  and  I  asked  the  Warder  what  was  the  vally  of  a  good,  well-constructed 
Crown  like  that.  He  told  me,  but  on  cypherin  up  with  a  pencil  the  amount  of 
funs  I  have  in  the  Jint  Stock  Bank,  I  conclooded  I'd  send  her  a  genteel  silver  watch 
instid. 

And  so  I  left  the  Tower.  It  is  a  solid  and  commandin  edifis,  but  I  deny  that 
it  is  cheerful.  I  bid  it  adoo  without  a  pang. 

I  was  droven  to  my  hotel  by  the  most  melancholly  driver  of  a  four-wheeler  that 
I  ever^saw.  He  heaved  a  deep  sigh  as  I  gave  him  two  shillings. 

"  I'll  give  you  six  d.'s  more,"  I  said,  "  if  it  hurts  you  so." 

'It  isn't  that,"  he  said,  with  a  hart-rendin  groan,  "it's  only  a  way  I  have.  My 
mind's  upset  to-day.  I  at  one  time  thought  I'd  drive  you  into  the  Thames.  I've 


TILL  Y    BONES.  347 

been  readin  all  the  daily  papers  to  try  and  understand  about  Governor  Eyre,  and 
my  mind  is  totterm.     It's  really  wonderful  I  didn't  drive  you  into  the  Thames." 

I  asked  the  onhappy  man  what  his  number  was,  so  I  could  redily  find  him  in 
case  I  should  want  him  agin,  and  bad  him  good-bye.  And  then  I  tho't  what  a 
frollicsome  day  I'd  made  of  it.  Respectably,  etc., 

CHARLES  FARRAR  BROWNE  (Art emus  Ward). 


TILLY     BONES. 

IT  was  a  delightful  morning  in  the  early  spring,  and  on  such  a  morning  a  woman 
of  horticultural  tastes  is  much  happier  out  of  doors  than  in  the  house  ;  but  for  this, 
I  am  inclined  to  think,  I  should  not  have  admitted  Tilly  to  my  kitchen,  for  the 
expression  of  her  countenance  was  sullen  and  vengeful  afaire peur. 

However,  in  other  respects  she  was  a  comely  enough  young  negro  woman,  tall, 
slim,  and  tidy  ;  therefore,  reflecting  that  I  might  wait  longer  and  fare  worse,  I  en- 
gaged her  services.  I  had  had  experience  to  teach  me  that  a  cook  may  smile  and 
smile,  and  be  a  villain,  so  I  hoped  that  signs  might  go  by  contraries  in  Tilly's  case. 
Nor  were  my  hopes  disappointed.  Her  sullen  gloom  of  countenance  did  by  no 
means  betoken  the  inward  spirit,  for  Tilly  possessed  a  power  of  grin  and  chuckle 
beyond  any  young  African  that  ever  I  saw.  She  was  a  genuine  plantation  darky, 
untamed  by  that  bizarre  form  of  civilization  developed  in  the  negro  that  dwells  in 
cities  ;  and  her  quaint  originality  and  keen  observation  furnished  me  unfailing 
amusement.  For  Tilly  was  neither  shy  nor  reticent.  I  found  her  "garrulously 
given,  a  babbler  in  the  land,"  and  I  became  the  repository  of  her  opinions  and 
experiences. 

As  to  her  name,  her  "  krizten  "  name,  as  she  called  it,  was  unmistakably  Tilly  ; 
and  another  name  she  had  which  certainly  began  with  a  B,  but  owing  to  her 
peculiar  utterance  this  remained  to  me  a  mystery  forever,  and  therefore  I  took  the 
liberty  of  calling  her  Bones,  partly  because  this  was  as  near  as  I  could  attain  to 
the  name  she  gave,  and  partly  because  of  her  extreme  angularity.  Inasmuch  as 
she  had,  from  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance,  dignified  my  own  name  with  the 
prefix  of  Mac,  we  could  consider  ourselves  quits  on  that  score.  I  acquiesced  in 
the  accession  of  a  syllable  with  secret  amusement,  and  she  accepted  her  new 
appellation  with  an  appreciative  grin.  Evidently  she  considered  it  a  distinction  to 
have  a  name  so  difficult  of  pronunciation. 

"  Hit's  a  easier  name  to  say,  Bones  is,"  she  commented,  with  patronizing  indul- 
gence for  my  inability  to  catch  the  proper  sound  ;  "en  ef  you  knows  hit,  Miz 
McAnderson,  en  me  knows  hit,  why,  hit's  all  squay."  (This  is  as  near  as  phonetic 
spelling  can  come  to  Tilly's  "  square.")  "  Hit  ain't  Pawndus's  name,  Bones  ain't ; 


348 


TILLY    BONES. 


but,"  she  continued,  consoling,  "you  ain't  got  no  'casion  fur  ter  call  Pawndus, 
noway,  fur  I  rekin  Pawndus  ain't  comin'  'roun'  whey  dey  is  a  boss.  So  hit  doan 
mek  no  diffunce  ;  en  ef  you's  minded  fur  ter  say  Bones,  Miz  McAnderson,  why  I 
ain't  no  ways  cawntrairy." 

Tilly  talked  a  great  deal  about  this  "Pawndus."  He  was  her  husband,  and  a 
very  terrible  reality  at  times.  He  was  directly  responsible  for  Tilly's  sour  and 
sullen  'havior  of  the  visage,  as  I  soon  discovered. 

I  should  explain  that  in  this  part  of  the  world  servants'  rooms  are  useless 
appendages  to  any  establishment.  Not  one  woman  in  a  hundred  who  is  willing  to 
"hire  out"  by  the  month  can  be  induced  to  take  a  room  on  the  employer's 


TILLY    ON    THE    PLANTATION. 


premises  ;  one  and  all,  they  would  rather  walk  any  distance  through  any  weather, 
and  Tilly  was  no  exception  to  the  general  rule.  I  offered  her  a  room  that  had  the 
advantage  of  being  detached  from  my  dwelling-house,  a  room  that  was,  I  have  no 
doubt,  infinitely  more  comfortable  than  the  shanty  she  occupied  on  the  other  side 
of  town.  But  though  I  extended  the  privilege  of  a  domicile  to  "Pawndus"  also, 
Tilly  stoutly  refused  ;  and,  rain  or  shine,  heat  or  cold,  sick  or  well,  she  tramped  her 
mile  back  and  forth,  so  long  as  she  remained  in  my  service. 

She  came  to  her  work  one  morning  with  a  countenance  so  lowering  that  I  was 
constrained  to  inquire  what  was  the  matter.  To  which  Tilly,  with  lips  projecting, 
made  answer  in  this  wise  : 


TILLY    BONES.  349 

"  Pawndus  he  "  — then  followed  an  inarticulate  mumble. 

Now  I  had  heard,  in  a  roundabout  way,  from  a  lady  who  had  once  employed 
Tilly,  that  Pawndus  was  given  to  wife-beating,  and  I  had  asked  Tilly  about  this. 
But  she  had  indignantly  denied  it  :  "  Pawndus  knowed  better,  he  did,  den  ter 
tech  her."  Nevertheless,  on  the  morning  I  speak  of,  I  had  my  suspicions  as  to 
what  had  happened,  but  I  only  said  : 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Tilly.     Is  Ponclus  sick,  or  are  you  sick  ?  " 

A  faint  flicker  of  a  smile,  that  wondrous  smile  of  hers,  that  was  like  a  sunburst 
from  behind  a  thunder-cloud,  played  over  her  dusky  features  as  she  answered  : 

"  'Speck  Pawndus  sick  'nuff  jez  'bout  now."  And  then  her  smile  vanished,  and 
her  lips  again  stuck  out  amazingly,  as  she  continued  in  a  grumbling  tone : 
"  'N'  as  fum  me,  might  jez  well  be  sick  ;  my  arm  dat  lame,  can't  lif  pot-lid." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  arm  ?  " 

"  Well,  Miz  McAnderson,  fac'  is,  you  see,  Pawndus  he  do  git  perpetuil,  times ; 
V  las'  night  he  done  let  loose  on  me  wid  de  tongs.  Dat's  what  matter  wid  my 
arm." 

"  I  will  give  you  some  arnica  for  it,  Tilly.  But  I  thought  Pondus  did  not  beat 
you  ?  " 

"No,  Miz  McAnderson,"  said  Tilly,  solemnly  shaking  her  head,  "  I  ain't  nuver 
said  Pawndus  doan  beat  me  no  time.  But,  you  see,  w'en  I  wuz  livin'  to  Miz 
Ginnie  Vine's,  Miz  Ginnie  she  sot  a  heap  by  me,  Miz  Ginnie  did,  en'  Mr.  Vine  he 
'lowed  efen  Pawndus  dared  to  tech  me,  he'd  jez  war  him  clean  plum  out  ;  'n' 
Pawndus"  —  (here  a  gleeful  chuckle)  —  "he  so  skeered  Mr.  Vine,  he  done  broke 
hisse'f  dat  foolishness.  Praise  de  Lawd,  I  mek  sho"  he  same  ez  forgit  all  'bout 
beaten  me,  'n'  I  warn't  gwine  lay  no  pas'  doin's  aginst  him  ;  but  here,  now,  come 
las'  night,  debbil  in  him  done  broke  out  fresh.  Tink  Mr.  Vine  ain't  yere  'bout 
hit." 

"  Does  he  drink  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  Miz  McAnderson,  nuttin'  but  debbil  in  him,"  she  responded  gloomily. 
"  Why  don't  you  go  down  to  the  mayor,  and  have  him  bound  over  to  keep  the 
peace  ? "  I  counselled. 

"  Kee,  he  !  Miz  McAnderson  !  You  doan  know  nuttin'  !  "  cackled  Tilly,  for- 
getting her  bruises  so  far  as  to  double  up  with  laughter.  "  Me  go  carry  complain', 
caws  money  ;  git  me  'noder  beaten,  w'en  I  go  home  ;  den  mebbe  put  Pawndus  in 
jail.  Nigger  doan  mine  jail  ;  nuttin'  ter  do,  an'  Pawndus  outen  wuk  —  dat's  what's 
matter  wid  dat  nigger  now  —  den  he  come  outen  jail  and  beat  me  'gin.  Tell  you, 
Miz  McAnderson,  dat  sort  doin's  cawses  money,  dey  do.  Now,  one  time  I  waz 
mad  wid  a  gal,  en  we  fout,  'n'  I  stobbed  her.  I  waz  dat  mad  'peared  like  I 
couldn't  see  ;  en  den,  w'en  de  blood  hit  come,  de  sorry  en  de  skeered  tergyedder 
jez  swallered  up  de  mad.  Den  de  sing  out  '  Perlice  ! '  en  yere  we  go  to  de  mare, 
en  money  ter  pay.  MeV  dat  gal's  been  good  friends  sence  dat  time.  No,  I  ainter 
gwine  ter  no  mare ;  I  knows  better  w'at  ter  do  wid  dat  nigger  Pawndus  den  dat. 
I  done  come  by  Aunt  Becky's,  dis  yer  mawnin',  en  I  'low  she'll  mek  Pawndus 
'pent." 


35° 


IN     VENICE. 


"And  who  is  Aunt  Becky?  "  I  asked,  with  some  vague  notion  that  Aunt  Becky 
might  be  in  the  dread  secrets  of  African  sorcery. 

"  Aunt  Becky,  she's  he  maw.  Eve'y  time  Pawndus  he  whack  me,  Aunt  Becky 
she  whack  Pawndus  ;  caze  he's  her  chile,  en  she's  boun'  ter  raise  him  right  ;  en  I 
'low  effen  he  ain't  raised  yit,  she'll  keep  on  spilin'  de  rods  tell  he  is." 

ELIZABETH  WHITFIELD  BELLAMY. 


IN     VENICE. 

LAST  night  in  my  gondola  I  made  a  vow  I  would  write  you  a  letter,  if  it  was 
only  to  beg  you  would  write  to  me  at  Rome.  Like  the  great  Marco  Polo,  however, 
whose  tomb  I  saw  to-day,  I  have  a  secret  wish  to  astonish  you  with  my  travels,  and 
would  take  you  with  me,  as  you  would  not  go  willingly,  from  London  to  Paris,  and 
from  Paris  to  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  and  so  on  to  this  city  of  romantic  adventure,  the 
place  from  which  he  started.  .  .  .  But  I  must  talk  to  you  a  little  about  Venice. 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  felt,  when  the  postilion  turned  gaily  around,  and,  pointing 
with  his  whip,  cried  out  "  Venezia  !  "  For  there  it  was,  sure  enough,  with  its  long 
line  of  domes  and  turrets  glittering  in  the  sun.  I  walk  about  here  all  day  long 
in  a  dream.  Is  that  the  Rialto,  I  say  to  myself  ?  Is  this  St.  Mark's  Place  ?  Do  I 
see  the  Adriatic  ?  I  think  if  you  and  I  were  together  here,  my  dear  Moore,  we 
might  manufacture  something  from  the  ponte  dei  sospiri,  the  scala  dei  giganti,  the 
piombi,  the  pozzi,  and  the  thousand  ingredients  of  mystery  and  terror  that  are  here 
at  every  turn.  Nothing  can  be  more  luxurious  than  a  gondola  and  its  little  black 
cabin,  in  which  you  can  fly  about  unseen,  the  gondoliers  so  silent  all  the  while. 
They  dip  their  oars  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  disturbing  you  ;  yet  you  fly.  As  you 
are  rowed  through  one  of  the  narrow  streets,  often  do  you  catch  the  notes  of  a  gui- 
tar, accompanied  by  a  female  voice,  through  some  open  window  ;  and  at  night,  on 
the  Grand  Canal,  how  amusing  is  it  to  observe  the  moving  lights  (every  gondola 
has  its  light),  one  now  and  then  shooting  across  at  a  little  distance,  and  vanishing  into 
a  smaller  canal.  Oh,  if  you  had  any  pursuit  of  love  or  pleasure,  how  nervous  they 
would  make  you,  not  knowing  their  contents  or  their  destination  !  and  how  infi- 
nitely more  interesting,  as  more  mysterious,  their  silence,  than  the  noise  of  carriage- 
wheels!  Before  the  steps  of  the  opera  house  they  are  drawn  up  in  array  with  their 
shining  prows  of  white  metal,  waiting  for  the  company.  One  man  remains  in  your 
boat,  while  the  other  stands  at  the  door  of  your  loge.  When  you  come  out,  he  at- 
tends you  clown,  and  calling  "  Pietro,"  or  "  Giacoma,"  is  answered  from  the  water, 
and  away  you  go.  The  gliding  motion  is  delightful,  and  would  calm  you  after  any 
scene  in  a  casino.  The  gondolas  of  the  foreign  ministers  carry  the  national  flag. 
I  think  you  would  be  pleased  with  an  Italian  theatre.  It  is  lighted  only  from  the 


A    LEAP    FROM    THE    RIALTO. 


THE     STANDARD     OF    SPEECH. 


353 


stage,  and  the  soft  shadows  that  are  thrown  over  it  produce  a  very  visionary  effect. 
Here  and  there  the  figures  in  a  box  are  illuminated  from  within,  and  glimmering 
and  partial  lights  are  almost  magical.  .  .  .  This  is  indeed  a  fairy-land,  and 
Venice  particularly  so.  If  at  Naples  you  see  most  with  the  eye,  and  at  Rome  with 
the  memory,  surely  at  Venice  you  see  most  with  the  imagination. 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


THE     STANDARD     OF    SPEECH. 

WHATEVER  predilection  the  Americans  may  have  for  their  native  European 
tongues,  and  particularly  the  British  descendants  for  the  English,  yet  several  cir- 
cumstances render  a  future  separation  of  the  American  tongue  from  the  English, 
necessary  and  unavoidable.  The  vicinity  of  the  European  nations,  with  the  unin- 
terrupted communication  in  peace  and  the  changes  of  dominion  in  war,  are  gradu- 
ally assimilating  their  respective  languages.  The  English  with  others  is  suffering 
continual  alterations.  America,  placed  at  a  distance  from  those  nations,  will  feel 
in  a  much  less  degree,  the  influence  of  the  assimilating  causes  ;  at  the  same  time, 
numerous  local  causes,  such  as  a  new  country,  new  associations  of  people,  new  com- 
binations of  ideas  in  arts  and  science,  and  some  intercourse  with  tribes  wholly  un- 
known in  Europe,  will  introduce  new  words  into  the  American  tongue.  These 
causes  will  produce,  in  a  course  of  time,  a  language  in  North  America  as  different 
from  the  future  language  of  England  as  the  modern  Dutch,  Danish,  and  Swedish 
are  from  the  German,  or  from  one  another  ;  like  remote  branches  of  a  tree  springing 
from  the  same  stock,  or  rays  of  light,  shot  from  the  same  center,  and  diverging 
from  each  other  in  proportion  to  their  distance  from  the  point  of  separation. 

Whether  the  inhabitants  of  America  can  be  brought  to  a  perfect  uniformity  in 
the  pronunciation  of  words,  it  is  not  easy  to  predict  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  no  at- 
tempt of  the  kind  has  been  made,  and  an  experiment,  begun  and  pursued  on  the 
right  principles,  is  the  only  way  to  decide  the  question.  Schools  in  Great  Britain 
have  gone  far  towards  demolishing  local  dialects  —  commerce  has  also  had  its  in- 
fluence —  and  in  America  these  causes,  operating  more  generally,  must  have  a  pro- 
portional effect. 

In  many  parts  of  America,  people  at  present  attempt  to  copy  the  English 
phrases  and  pronunciation  — an  attempt  that  is  favored  by  their  habits,  their  pre- 
possessions, and  the  intercourse  between  the  two  countries.  This  attempt  has, 
within  the  period  of  a  few  years,  produced  a  multitude  of  changes  in  these  particu- 
lars, especially  among  the  leading  classes  of  people.  These  changes  make  a  differ- 
ence between  the  language  of  the  higher  and  common  ranks,  and  indeed  between 


354 


THE     STANDARD     OF    SPEECH. 


the  same  ranks  in  different  States,  as  the  rage  for  copying  the  English  does  not 
prevail  equally  in  every  part  of  North  America. 

But  besides  the  reasons  already  assigned  to  prove  this  imitation  absurd,  there 
is  a  difficulty  attending  it  which  will  defeat  the  end  proposed  by  its  advocates  ; 
which  is,  that  the  English  themselves  have  no  standard  of  pronunciation,  nor  can 
they  ever  have  one  on  the  plan  they  propose.  The  authors,  who  have  attempted  to 
give  us  a  standard,  make  the  practice  of  the  court  and  stage  in  London  the  sole 
criterion  of  propriety  in  speaking.  An  attempt  to  establish  a  standard  on  this 
foundation  is  both  unjust  and  idle.  It  is  unjust,  because  it  is  abridging  the  nation 
of  its  rights.  The  general  practice  of  a  nation  is  the  rule  of  propriety,  and  this 
practice  should  at  least  be  consulted  in  so  important  a  matter  as  that  of  making 
laws  for  speaking.  While  all  men  are  upon  a  footing  and  no  singularities  are  ac- 
counted vulgar  or  ridiculous,  every  man  enjoys  perfect  liberty.  But  when  a  particu- 
lar set  of  men,  in  exalted  stations,  undertake  to  say,  "  we  are  the  standards  of 
propriety  and  elegance,  and  if  all  men  do  not  conform  to  our  practice  they  shall  be 
accounted  vulgar  and  ignorant,"  they  take  a  very  great  liberty  with  the  rules  of  the 
language  and  the  rights  of  civility. 

But  an  attempt  to  fix  a  standard  on  the  practice  of  any  particular  class  of  people 
is  highly  absurd  ;  as  a  friend  of  mine  once  observed,  it  is  like  fixing  a  light-house 
on  a  floating  island.  It  is  an  attempt  to  fix  that  which  is  in  itself  variable  ;  at  least 
it  must  be  variable  so  long  as  it  is  supposed  that  a  local  practice  has  no  standard 
but  a  local  practice,  that  is,  no  standard  but  itself.  While  this  doctrine  is  believed, 
it  will  be  impossible  for  a  nation  to  follow  as  fast  as  the  standard  changes  —  for  if 
the  gentlemen  at  court  constitute  a  standard,  they  are  above  it  themselves,  and 
their  practice  must  shift  with  their  passions  and  their  whims. 

But  this  is  not  all.  If  the  practice  of  a  few  men  in  the  capital  is  to  be  the 
standard,  a  knowledge  of  this  must  be  communicated  to  the  whole  nation.  Who 
shall  do  this  ?  An  able  compiler  perhaps  attempts  to  give  this  practice  in  a  dic- 
tionary ;  but  it  is  probable  that  the  pronunciation,  even  at  court  or  on  the  stage,  is 
not  uniform.  The  compiler  therefore  must  follow  his  particular  friends  and  pa- 
trons, in  which  case  he  is  sure  to  be  opposed  and  the  authority  of  his  standard 
called  in  question  ;  or  he  must  give  two  pronunciations  as  the  standard,  which 
leaves  the  student  in  the  same  uncertainty  as  it  found  him.  Both  these  events 
have  actually  taken  place  in  England,  with  respect  to  the  most  approved  standards ; 
and  of  course  no  one  is  universally  followed. 

Besides,  if  language  must  vary,  like  fashions,  at  the  caprice  of  a  court,  we  must 
have  our  standard  dictionaries  republished  with  the  fashionable  pronunciation,  at 
least  once  in  five  years  ;  otherwise  a  gentleman  in  the  country  will  become  intoler- 
ably vulgar  by  not  being  in  a  situation  to  adopt  the  fashion  of  the  day.  The  new 
editions  of  them  will  supersede  the  old,  and  we  shall  have  our  pronunciation  to  re- 
learn,  with  the  polite  alterations,  which  are  generally  corruptions. 

Such  are  the  consequences  of  attempting  to  make  a  local  practice  the  standard 
of  language  in  a  nation.  The  attempt  must  keep  the  language  in  perpetual  fluctu- 
ation, and  the  learner  in  uncertainty. 


THE     STANDARD     OF    SPEECH. 


355 


If  a  standard  therefore  cannot  be  fixed  on  local  and  variable  custom,  on  what 
shall  it  be  fixed  ?  If  the  most  eminent  speakers  are  not  to  direct  our  practice, 
where  shall  we  look  for  a  guide  ?  The  answer  is  extremely  easy  ;  the  rules  of  the 
language  itself,  and  the  general  practice  of  the  nation,  constitute  propriety  in 
speaking.  If  we  examine  the  structure  of  any  language,  we  shall  find  a  certain 
principle  of  analogy  running  through  the  whole.  We  shall  find  in  English  that 
similar  combinations  of  letters  have  usually  the  same  pronunciation,  and  that  words 
having  the  same  terminating  syllable  generally  have  the  accent  at  the  same  dis- 
tance from  that  termination. 

These  principles  of  analogy  were  not  the  result  of  design  —  they  must  have 
been  the  effect  of  accident,  or  that  tendency  which  all  men  feel  towards  uniformity. 
But  the  principles,  when  established,  are  productive  of  great  convenience,  and  be- 
come an  authority  superior  to  the  arbitrary  decisions  of  any  man  or  class  of  men. 
There  is  one  exception  only  to  this  remark.  When  a  deviation  from  analogy  has 
become  the  universal  practice  of  a  nation,  it  then  takes  place  of  all  rules  and  be- 
comes the  standard  of  propriety. 

The  two  points,  therefore,  which  I  conceive  to  be  the  basis  of  a  standard  in 
speaking,  are  these  —  universal  undisputed  practice,  and  the  principle  of  analogy. 
Universal  practice  is  generally,  perhaps  always,  a  rule  of  propriety ;  and  in  disputed 
points,  where  people  differ  in  opinion  and  practice,  analogy  should  always  decide 
the  controversy. 

These  are  authorities  to  which  all  men  will  submit  —  they  are  superior  to  the 
opinions  and  caprices  of  the  great,  and  to  the  negligence  and  ignorance  of  the  mul- 
titude. The  authority  of  individuals  is  always  liable  to  be  called  in  question,  but 
the  unanimous  consent  of  a  nation,  and  a  fixed  principle  interwoven  with  the  very 
construction  of  a  language,  coeval  and  coextensive  with  it,  are  like  the  common 
laws  of  a  land  or  the  immutable  rules  of  morality,  the  propriety  of  which  every  man, 
however  refractory,  is  forced  to  acknowledge,  and  to  which  most  men  will  readily 
submit.  Fashion  is  usually  the  child  of  caprice  and  the  being  of  a  day  ;  principle's 
of  propriety  are  founded  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  and  remain  unmoved  and  un- 
changed, amidst  all  the  fluctuations  of  human  affairs  and  the  revolutions  of  time. 

NOAH  WEBSTER. 


3S6  DRAMATIC    REALISM. 


DRAMATIC     REALISM. 

IN  a  piece  at  the  Ambigu,  called  the  "  Rentree  a  Paris,"  a  mere  scene  in  honor 
of  the  return  of  the  troops  from  the  Crimea  the  other  day,  there  is  a  novelty  which 
I  think  it  worth  letting  you  know  of,  as  it  is  easily  available,  either  for  a  serious  or 
a  comic  interest  —  the  introduction  of  a  supposed  electric  telegraph.  The  scene  is 
the  railway  terminus  at  Paris,  with  the  electric  telegraph-office  on  the  prompt  side, 
and  the  clerks  with  their  backs  to  the  audience  —  much  more  real  than  if  they 
were,  as  they  infallibly  would  be,  staring  about  the  house  —  working  the  needles  ;  and 
the  little  bell  perpetually  ringing.  There  are  assembled  to  greet  the  soldiers  all  the 
easily  and  naturally  imagined  elements  of  interest —  old  veteran  fathers,  young  chil- 
dren, agonized  mothers,  sisters  and  brothers,  girl  lovers  — each  impatient  to  know  of 
his  or  her  own  object  of  solicitude.  Enter  to  these  a  certain  marquis,  full  of  sympathy 
for  all,  who  says,  "  My  friends,  I  am  one  of  you.  My  brother  has  no  commission  yet. 
He  is  a  common  soldier.  I  wait  for  him  as  well  as  all  brothers  and  sisters  here 
wait  for  their  brothers.  Tell  me  whom  you  are  expecting."  Then  they  all  tell 
him.  Then  he  goes  into  the  telegraph-office,  and  sends  a  message  down  the  line 
to  know  how  long  the  troops  will  be.  Bell  rings.  Answer  handed  out  on  a  slip  of 
paper.  "  Delay  on  the  line.  Troops  will  not  arrive  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 
General  disappointment.  "  But  we  have  this  brave  electric  telegraph,  my  friends," 
says  the  marquis.  "  Give  me  your  little  messages,  and  I'll  send  them  off."  Gen- 
eral rush  round  the  marquis.  Exclamations  :  "  How's  Henri  ?  "  "  My  love  to 
Georges."  "  Has  Guillaume  forgotten  Elise  ?  '  "  Is  my  son  wounded  ?  "  "  Is 
my  brother  promoted  ?"  etc.,  etc.  Marquis  composes  tumult.  Sends  message  — 
such  a  regiment,  such  a  company.  "  Elise's  love  to  Georges."  Little  bell  rings, 
slip  of  paper  handed  out  —  "Georges  in  ten  minutes  will  embrace  his  Elise. 
Sends  her  a  thousand  kisses."  Marquis  sends  message —  such  a  regiment,  such  a 
company —  "  Is  my  son  wounded  ?  "  Little  bell  rings.  Slip  of  paper  handed  out 

-  "  No.  He  has  not  yet  upon  him  those  marks  of  bravery  in  the  glorious  service 
of  his  country  which  his  dear  old  father  bears  "  (father  being  lame  and  invalided). 
Last  of  all,  the  widowed  mother.  Marquis  sends  message  —  such  a  regiment,  such 
a  company  —  "  Is  my  only  .son  safe  ?  "  Little  bell  rings.  Slip  of  paper  handed 
out  —  "  He  was  first  upon  the  heights  of  Alma."  General  cheer.  Bell  rings  again, 
another  slip  of  paper  handed  out  — "  He  was  made  a  sergeant  at  Inkermann." 
Another  cheer.  Bell  rings  again,  another  slip  of  paper  handed  out  —  "  He  was 
made  color-sergeant  at  Sebastopol."  Another  cheer.  Bell  rings  again,  another 
slip  of  paper  handed  out  —  "  He  was  the  first  man  who  leaped  with  the  French 
banner  on  the  Malakhoff  tower."  Tremendous  cheer.  Bell  rings  again,  another 
slip  of  paper  handed  out  —  "  But  he  was  struck  down  there  by  a  musket-ball,  and 

-troops  have  proceeded.  Will  arrive  in  half  a  minute  after  this."  Mother 
abandons  all  hope  ;  general  commiseration  ;  troops  rush  in,  down  a  platform  ;  son 
only  wounded,  and  embraces  her. 


WHITTIER     WITH    THE    CHILDREN.  .        357 

As  I  have  said,  and  as  you  will  see,  this  is  available  for  any  purpose.  But  done 
with  equal  distinction  and  rapidity,  it  is  a  tremendous  effect,  and  got  by  the 
simplest  means  in  the  world.  There  is  nothing  in  the  piece,  but  it  was  impossible 
not  to  be  moved  and  excited  by  the  telegraph  part  of  it.  ... 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


WHITTIER   WITH    THE   CHILDREN. 

THE  child-soul  is  born  to  live  in  every  man.  But  it  often  tries  its  delicate 
wings  too  soon,  alas !  before  the  boy  has  emerged  into  what  we  call  the  world,  and 
taken  his  place  among  the  eager  multitudes  that  throng  the  highways  of  life.  The 
most  beautiful  thing  thus  being  allowed  to  escape,  the  boy-man  looks  about  him ; 
his  young  eager  eyes  pierce  the  varying  forms  of  individuality  he  sees  ;  he  is 
searching  for  the  hero  he  would  copy,  the  man  whom  he  would  take  as  his  model. 
And  all  the  while  the  hero  is  within  his  own  breast,  waiting  for  that  divine  and 
human  summons  to  action,  that  can  come  from  none  other  than  his  individual  self 
impelled  by  God  who  sent  him  into  the  universe. 

Thus  it  is  that  the  marked  individuality  that  men  call  character,  comes  by  pre- 
serving as  nearly  as  possible  the  soul  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  its  divine  afflatus 
unspoiled  by  anything  that  would  assert  itself  between  these  agencies.  In  other 
words,  the  soul,  good  conditions  being  around  it,  is  let  alone  to  do  its  own  growing. 
And  the  garden  of  virtues  thrives,  not  so  much  by  the  system  of  grafting,  as  by 
all  those  gentler  and  slower  processes  that  leave  much  to  Nature. 

"My  own  dear  Mr.  Whittier,"  as  he  is  called  by  the  child  of  our  household  (who 
from  baby  days  has  by  frequent  visits  been  allowed  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
poet's  presence),  was  so  markedly  a  man  who  retained  his  child-soul  to  the  very 
last,  that  it  is  a  delightful  task  to  go  back  over  a  long  stretch  of  years  to  notice 
how  he  came  by  it  in  the  first  place;  then  to  learn  how  he  kept  it,  and  allowed  it 
to  grow,  till  God  took  him  with  that  soul  of  such  native  purity  as  to  contain  little 
that  could  be  of  alien  growth  in  the  Immortal  Land. 

To  be  all  this,  and  go  out  of  life  with  soul  so  fresh,  Mr.  Whittier  must  have  had, 
silently  or  otherwise,  much  sympathy  with  child-nature.  We  know  that  he  had  ; 
and  it  is  to  pick  up  the  various  links  of  the  chain  that  bound  together  this  man  with 
the  child-soul  and  the  little  ones  whom  he  so  closely  resembled  in  purity  and  in 
simplicity  of  faith,  that  this  imperfect  sketch  is  written. 

Lovingly  we  bring  with  tender  and  reverent  hand  this  wreath  of  bays  for  his 
memory  ;  each  leaf  is  gathered  from  the  carefully  guarded  reminiscence  of  relative 
and  friend,  garnered  till  the  circle  of  years  was  completed  and  the  poet  passed  on 
to  the  larger  life  that  knows  no  ending. 

The  child,  John  Greenleaf  Whittier,  had  a  heritage  from  an  ancestry  singularly 


358  WHITTIER      WITH     THE      CHILDREN. 

free  from  taint  of  any  kind.  Simple  of  creed,  direct  of  purpose,  virile  of  effort, 
it  kept  its  long  line  unswervingly  to  good  aims  and  healthful  pursuits.  So  that 
when  the  baby  opened  his  eyes  on  that  winter  day  in  1807,  in  the  old,  homestead, 
under  the  shadow  of  Job's  Hill,  two  miles  or  more  from  the  center  of  Old  Haver- 
hill,  he  opened  them  to  an  horizon  not  hemmed  in  by  the  narrow  bounds  of  his 
rural  life. 

What  a  happy  home  the  sun  smiled  on  there  !  Out  upon  those  who  would  call 
its  conditions  hard !  As  well  say  that  the  New  England  winter  air,  crisp  with 
recent  snow,  and  smelling  of  frozen  salt  marshes  and  "  passed  orchard  delights," 
as  some  one  has  termed  it,  is  cold  and  cruel !  Muscles  tense  as  steel,  wills  made 
strong  by  battling  with  and  beating  adverse  elements,  and  that  sweet  serenity  that 
comes  from  self-conquest,  were  born  of  the  New  England  winter  and  the  New 
England  home  of  the  early  part  of  the  century,  "barren  "  though  you  of  the  cent- 
ury's ebb,  may  be  pleased  to  call  it. 

What  an  altogether  delightful  place  is  Mr.  Whittier's  old  homestead,  mellow 
now  with  its  happy  memories.  Here  is  the  room  in  which  the  baby  boy,  our 
poet,  first  saw  the  light ;  here  is  the  quaint  staircase,  down  which,  wrapped  in  a 
blanket,  he  was  projected  by  the  infant  hand  of  his  sister,  two  years  older,  who 
held  ideas  of  her  own  as  to  the  manner  of  achieving  descent  to  the  room  below  ; 
here  are  the  "  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam,"  "  the  crane  and  pendent  tram- 
mels," the  "warm  hearth  blazing  free,"  in  whose  reflected  light 

"  The  old,  rude-furnished  room, 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom." 

Here  are  cupboards,  redolent  of  juicy  pie,  doughnuts,  and  all  the  toothsome 
train  of  New  England  delicacies  of  that  day.  Crowded  in  upon  each  other,  some 
with  upper  door  to  hide  the  treasures  secure  from  the  younger  portion  of  the  house- 
hold, paneled,  and  with  many  a  quaint  device  as  to  lock  and  button  and  hinge,  they 
stand  in  the  old  kitchen,  as  who  should  say,  "We  guarded  the  family  life;  look 
upon  us,  for  we  are  good  to  see." 

And  outside  the  small  many-paned  windows  where  the  lilac  bushes  waved  their 
sweet  incense  to  usher  in  the  long  summer  day,  or  the  poplars,  grim  and  straight, 
pointed  without  wavering  to  the  sky  ;  where  the  old  well  invited  to  the  cool 
draught,  more  welcome  than  nectar  to  the  parched  lip,  and  the  little  brook  ran 
down  Job's  Hill  and  danced  across  the  house-place  to  sing  its  way  over  the  road  - 
here  were  packed  myriad  delights  for  the  growing  boy,  as  soon  as  he  could  toddle 
through  the  quaint  doorway,  arid  over  the  big  flat  stone  that  served  as  a  step,  to 
the  limitless  world  of  "out-of-doors." 

When  Mr.  Whittier  was  seven  years  old,  one  day  as  he  was  driving  the  cows  to 
pasture,  a  revelation,  swift  and  unerring,  came  to  him.  He  had  let  down  the  bars 
and  the  cows  had  just  passed  through,  when  a  flash  of  thought  struck  him  :  "  Why 
am  I  different  from  those  cows  ?  What  have  I  got  to  do  in  life  ?  What  is  life  ?  " 


WHITTIER      WITH    THE     CHILDREN. 


359 


And  he  never  lost  the  influence  of  that  hour  and  that  revelation  ;  it  affected 
his  whole  life. 

The  love  of  animals  was  indeed  a  dominating  quality  of  Mr.  Whittier's  mind. 
It  contributed  largely  to  the  strength  and  sweetness  of  his  verse,  and  from  his 
companionship  with  the  patient  "beasts  of  the  field"  he  received,  as  we  shall 
show  later,  much  that  kept  "  his  silences  "  from  becoming  misanthropic  and  too 
long-continued. 

Nature  opened  up  her  secrets  to  him  readily.  Alert,  indeed,  she  must  have 
been  to  successfully  hide  her  treasures  from  the  sensitive  boy  whose  keen  eyes, 
even  then,  had  the  lambent  gleam  of  the  seer.  His  early  work  on  the  farm 
brought  him  into  quick  and  sympathetic  touch  with  every  mood  and  tense  of 


"bWEET    KENOZA    FROM    THE    SHORE,   ANIJ    WATCHING    HILLS    BEYOND.1' 

Nature,  until  she  was  really  his  mother,  to  whom  he  would  go  for  sweet  counsel, 
for  pleasure  and  for  stimulus. 

The  books  that  influenced  this  child-soul  were  few  in  number,  as  the  libraries 
in  farmers'  households  were  necessarily  limited  in  those  days.  The  Bible  was  his 
first  choice,  and  over  its  pages  he  pored,  gathering  in  rich  material  for  those  talis- 
manic  poems  that  were  to  draw  all  Christendom  to  him  in  loving  sympathy.  It  is 
this  love  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  that  made  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  pre-eminently 
the  poet  of  the  people;  through  his  study  of  that  book  he  came  into  the  knowledge 
of  human  needs,  and  there  he  imbibed  the  spirit  of  the  old  prophets  and  reformers 
who  thundered  through  the  pages  of  the  Old  Testament,  while  the  love  breathed 


360  WHITTIER      WITH     THE     CHILDREN. 

in  every  line  of  the  New  Testament  was  to  bear  fruit  in  him  —  another  John  whom 
the  Saviour  loved. 

Look  in  at  the  old  kitchen  on  one  of  little  Greenleaf's  childhood  days.  More 
than  likely,  if  the  morning  hour  be  near  to  "  sun-up,"  you  will  find  him  with 
mother,  whom  in  after  years  he  lovingly,  in  words  of  light,  describes  thus :  "  All 
that  the  sacred  word  mother  means  in  its  broadest,  fullest  significance  our  mother 
was  to  us  —  a  friend,  helper,  counselor,  companion,  ever  loving,  gentle  and  unsel- 
fish." Perhaps  he  is  busy  over  the  homely  household  tasks,  while  she  is  spinning 
or  weaving,  as  all  the  woollen  cloth  the  family  required  must  be  made  by  her 
untiring  fingers  ;  it  is  more  than  probable  that  the  boy  has  the  big  Bible  where  he 
can  take  a  peep  at  some  open  page  in  the  midst  of  his  dish-washing,  or  his  sweep- 
ing of  the  old  kitchen  floor,  for  little  Greenleaf  read  his  Bible  as  children  nowadays 
hang  over  their  toy-books  and  fairy  tales  —  or  perhaps  it  was  the  Farmer's 
Almanac  or  John  Woolman's  Journal,  that  talismanic  narrative  that  stirred  his 
little  soul.  By  and  by  comes  in  one  day  "a  paukie  auld  carle  "  of  a  Scotchman, 
one  of  the  droppers-in  at  the  Whittier  house.  He  hungers,  as  usual,  after  the 
cheese  and  doughnuts,  and  thirsts  after  the  mug  of  cider.  When  he  has  received 
them  he  sings  in  a  generous  fashion,  "Highland  Mary,"  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  and 
"  Bonnie  Doon,"  till  the  old  kitchen  rings  from  floor  to  rafter.  Later,  when  our 
poet  was  fourteen,  his  school  teacher,  Joshua  Coffin,  brought  to  the  house  a  copy 
of  Burns's  poems.  Greenleaf  entreated  him  for  the  loan  of  the  book  a  while ;  and 
then  every  spare  moment  was  passed  in  conquering  the  dialect  of  Burns,  and  in 
rhyming  and  imagining  all  sorts  of  tales. 

On  First  Day,  as  Sunday  is  called  in  Quaker  homes,  the  old  chaise  would  be 
brought  to  the  door,  and  as  many  of  the  household  as  could,  would  stow  away  in 
its  depths,  and  away  they  would  drive  over  the  hills  to  the  quaint  little  Quaker 
meeting-house  in  Amesbury,  eight  miles  away.  It  was  sometimes  Greenleaf's  luck 
to  be  crowded  out.  But  what  cared  he,  to  whom  the  groves  and  streams  were 
his  pulpit,  and  Nature  the  preacher  ?  So  he  spent  the  lonely  delicious  days  on 
Job's  Hill,  that  silent  watcher  that  overhung  the  lonely  farmhouse.  Up  to  this 
height  the  boy's  eyes  were  often  turned,  as  to  a  monitor  who  should  point  through 
"  nature  up  to  nature's  God ; "  and  with  what  a  keen  relish  he  spoke  in  after  life, 
when  the  shadows  of  many  graves  fell  across  his  pathway,  of  the  early  delights  of 
"  climbing  Job's  Hill  which  rose  abruptly  from  the  brook  which  rippled  down  at 
the  foot  of  our  garden."  And  then  he  tells  over  delightedly  the  different  mount- 
ain peaks  he  could  see  from  this  same  dear  Job's  Hill,  "and  Great  Pond"  (after- 
ward named  by  him  Kenoza  —  the  lake  of  the  pickerel)  "  stretched  away  from  the 
foot  of  the  hill."  Or  he  wandered  through  fragrant,  piny  woods,  and  haunted 

"  Sweet  Kenoza  from  the  shore, 
And  watching  hills  beyond ; " 

or  he  followed  patiently  the  course  of  the  little  brook  that  danced  and  gurgled  its 
way  along  through  many  a  tangled  covert,  till  his  young  soul  was  ablaze  with  the 
glory  of  the  Lord. 

MARGARET  SIDNEY. 


INDEX    TO    AUTHORS. 


ADAMS,  JOHN  (1735-1826). 

The  Fourth  of  July          . 
ADDISON,  JOSEPH  (1672-1719). 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley    . 
ALCOTT,  LOUISA  M.  (1833-1888). 

The  Little  Women's  Romance 
ALDEN,  MRS.,  G.  R.  (Pansy) 

The  Temperance  Preacher 
ALLEN,  JAMES  LANE. 

"  De  Baptizin'  in  Elkhorn  Creek  "          . 
ARNOLD,  MATTHEW  (1822-1888). 

Sweetness  and  Light       . 
ARNOLD,  THOMAS  (1795-1842). 

At  Rugby        

ASCHAM,  ROGER  (1515-1568). 

An  Apology  for  English 

BACON,  FRANCIS  (1561-1626). 

On  Studies       ...... 

BANCROFT,  GEORGE  (1800-1890). 

Roger  Williams 

BEECHER,  HENRY  WARD  (1813-1887). 

Deacon  Marble's  Trout  .         .         .         . 
BELLAMY,  ELIZABETH  WHITFIELD. 

Tilly  Bones      ...... 

BILLINGS,  JOSH  (See  Shaw,  Henry  W.). 
BLACKMORE,  R.  D. 

John  and  Lorna 

Lorna  Doone 

BOYESEN,  HjALMAR  HjORTH. 

Bergerson  and  Moe          . 
BRIGHT,  JOHN  (1811-1889). 

On  England's  Foreign  Policy 
BRONTE,  CHARLOTTE  (1816-1855). 

To  H.  S.  Williams 

BROOKS,  ELBRIDGE  S. 

The  American  Indian       .     '   . 
BROWN,  CHARLES  BROCKDEN  (1771-1810). 

An  Encounter  with  a  Panther 
BROWNE,  SIR  THOMAS  (1605-1682). 

On  Pride t 

BROWNE,  CHARLES  FARRAR  (1834-1867). 

The  Tower  of  London     . 


299 
44 
92 

57 
116 

231 
ii 

253 

43 
199 

16 

347 


64 
1  06 


118 
218 

3" 
294 

4' 
344 


BUNCE,  OLIVER  BELL  (1828-1890). 

Is  Gardening  a  Pleasure  ?  ....  122 
BUNYAN,  JOHN  (1628-1688). 

Christian  in  Doubting  Castle  ...  17 
BURKE,  EDMUND  (1730-1797). 

Conciliation     .......       81 

BURNETT,  FRANCES  HODGSON. 

Joan 303 

BURNS,  ROBERT  (1759-1796). 

To  Robert  Ainslie 215 

CABLE,  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

The  Last  Train  North 89 

Mr.  Tarbox  and  Zozephine  ....  291 
CARLYLE,  THOMAS  (1795-1881). 

London 29 

Carlyle  to  his  Mother 65 

To  Thomas  Murray 103 

Fashionable  Life  at  Kinkaird  House  .  .  232 
CARLYLE,  JANE  WELSH  (1800-1866). 

Mrs.  Carlyle  to  her  Husband  .  .  .  230 

CHANNING,  WILLIAM  ELLERY  (1780-1842). 

Every  Man  Great 207 

CHATHAM,  LORD  (1708-1778). 

On  Affairs  in  America 13 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY  (1328-1400). 

Upon  Riches 23 

CHILD,  LYDIA  MARIA  (1802-1880). 

Unselfishness 266 

CHOATE,  RUFUS  (1799-1859). 

The  Private  Character  of  Webster  .  .  300 
CLAY,  HENRY  (1777-1852). 

On  the  War  of  1812 17; 

An  Appeal  for  the  Union  ....  189 
COBDEN,  RICHARD  (1804-1865). 

Protection 175 

COLERIDGE,  MRS.  SARA  (1803-1852). 

An  English  Sunset 126 

COOKE,  JOHN  ESTEN  (1830-1886). 

The  Rose  of  Glengary 124 

COOPER,  JAMES  FENIMORE  (1789-1851). 

An  Encounter  with  the  Iroquois     .         .         .     257 


INDEX   TO   AUTHORS. 


Cox,  SAMUEL  SULLIVAN  (1824-1889). 

Secession 126 

CRAIK,  DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK  (1826-1887). 

"Stay" 277 

CRANE,  THOMAS  FREDERICK. 

Aunt  Maria  and  the  Autophone  .  .  .  239 
CURTIS,  GEORGE  WILLIAM. 

Mrs.  Potiphar's  "  Cabinet  Shop "  .  .  .  186 
CUYLER,  THEODORE  L. 

The  Premier  Gladstone 298 

DAVIS,  M.  E.  M. 

News  from  the  Front 73 

DE  FOE,  DANIEL  (1661-1731). 

The  Footprint  on  the  Shore  ....     273 

DE  QUINCEY,  THOMAS  (1785-1859). 

On  Conversation 182 

DICKENS,  CHARLES  (1812-1870). 

Twenty-three 114 

Mr.  Barkis 134 

The  Death  of  Little  Nell  .  .  .  .226 
Captain  Cuttle's  Island  ,  .  .  .  .321 
Dramatic  Realism  ......  356 

DODGE,  MARY  ABIGAIL. 

My  Garden 12 

DODGE,  MARY  MAPES. 

Miss  Maloney  on  the  Chinese  Question  .     223 

DOUGLAS,  STEPHEN  ARNOLD  (1813-1861). 

On  the  War 228 

DRYDEN,  JOHN  (1630-1700). 

Ben  Jonson      .......       42 

ELIOT,  GEORGE  (See  Lewes,  Mary  Ann  Evans). 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO  (1803-1881). 

Compensation         ......       30 

Obedience  to  Law  ......     161 

ERSKINE,  LORD  (1750-1823). 

Limitations  of  Free  Speech    .         .         .  15 

FISKE,  JOHN. 

The  Tyranny  of  Andros  .  .  .  no 

Fox,  CHARLES  JAMES  (1749-1806). 

War  the  Destroyer 161 

FRANKLIN,  BENJAMIN  (1706  1790). 

The  Whistle   .......       77 

FROUDE,  JAMES  ANTHONY. 

Selfishness  versus  Nobility  .  .  .  153 

FULLER,  THOMAS  (1608-1661). 

The  Good  Wife      .  ....       32 

GARFIELD,  JAMES  ABRAM  (1831-1881). 

On  American  Institutions  ....  227 
GAYARRE,  CHARLES  ETIENNE  ARTHUR. 

The  Legend  of  the  Date-tree  .  .  .  317 

GIBBON,  EDWARD  (1737-1794). 

The  Invention  of  Gunpowder  .         .         .     146 


GLADSTONE,  WILLIAM  EWART. 

Kin  Beyond  Sea 

Progress  .... 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER  (1728-1774). 

Scotchmen       .... 

To  Mrs.  Jane  Lawder 


244 
287 

117 

225 


HALE,  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

A  Lesson  in  Patriotism 148 

HAMILTON,  GAIL  (See  Dodge,  Mary  Abigail). 
HARDY,  THOMAS. 

A  Question  of  Loving     .....     304 
HARLAND,  HENRY. 

A  Talent  for  Music 178 

HARRIS,  JOEL  CHANDLER. 

The  Wonderful  Tar-Baby  Story     ...       97 

How  Mr.  Rabbit  was  too  Sharp  for  Mr.  Fox.       98 
HARTE,  BRET. 

Melons 68 

HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL  (1804-1864). 

Little  Pearl  in  the  Forest         ....       59 

The  Town  Pump     ......     337 

HAYDON,  BENJAMIN  ROBERT  (1786-1846). 

To  Miss  Mitford 269 

HAYNE,  ROBERT  Y.  (1791-1840). 

On  Mr.  Foot's  Resolution  35 

HELPS,  ARTHUR  (1808-1881). 

On  the  Art  of  Living  with  Others    .         .         .     145 
HENRY,  PATRICK  (1737-1799). 

Speech  before  the  Virginia  Convention  .         .        87 
HILDRETH,  RICHARD  (1807-1865). 

Continental  Congress      .         .  .  138 

HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  WENTWORTH. 

Spring  in  New  England 137 

HOLLAND,  JOSIAH  GILBERT  (1819-1881). 

The  True  Track 278 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL. 

Talk 48 

The  Long  Path in 

HOOD,  THOMAS  (1798-1845). 

Gradle    .         .         .         .         .         .        „         .     243 

To  a  Child 296 

HOWARD,  BLANCHE  WILLIS. 

Philip  and  Leigh 266 

HUGHES,  THOMAS. 

Personal  Influence  .....     289 

HUME,  DAVID  (1711-1776). 

On  the  Middle  Station  in  Life        ...       66 

To  William  Robertson 276 

HURD,  FRANK  R. 

For  Freedom  of  Trade    .         .         „         .  229 


IRVING,  WASHINGTON  (1783-1859). 
Wouter  Van  Twiller 
The  Alhambra  by  Moonlight 

JAMES,  HENRY. 

Spiritual  Emancipation 


49 
209 

279 


INDEX   TO   AUTHORS. 


JEFFERSON,  THOMAS  (1743-1826). 

The  Essential  Principles  of  Government         .       79 

The  Rights  of  Man 276 

JEWETT,  SARAH  ORNE. 

The  White  Rose  Road 220 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL  (1709-1784). 

Letter  to  Mrs.  Thrale 51 

JOHNSON,  RICHARD  MALCOLM. 

Nipped  in  the  Hud 210 

JONSON,  BEN  (1574-1637). 

On  Bacon 44 

KEATS,  JOHN  (1796-1821). 

John  Keats  to  William  Reynolds  .  .  .  229 
KING,  THOMAS  STARR  (1824-1863). 

Sight  and  Insight 252 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES  (1819-1875). 

A  Country  Parish 14 

The  Miracle  of  Nature 184 

LAMB,  CHARLES  (1775-1834). 
On  the  Death  of  an  Old  Friend      ...       22 
To  Bernard  Barton          .....     206 
A  True  Caledonian 250 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE  (1775-1864). 

Petition  of  Thugs      ...  .         .     233 

LANIGAN,  GEORGE  T.  (1845-1886). 

The  Grasshopper  and  the  Ant         ...       92 

LEWES,  MARY  ANN  EVANS  (1819-1880). 

The  Gift  of  Gold 162 

Mr.  Casaubon's  Romance        ....     218 
Adam  and  Dinah 329 

LINCOLN,  ABRAHAM  (1809-1865). 

The  Gettysburg  Address          .         .         .         -75 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W.  (1807-1882). 

Footprints  of  Angels 61 

LOTHROP,  HARRIET  MULFORD. 

Joel  at  Work 242 

Old  Concord 170 

Whittier  with  the  Children     .         .         .         -357 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL  (1819-1891). 

Democracy      .         .         .         .         •         .         .152 

LUSKA,  SIDNEY  (See  Harland,  Henry). 

LYTTON,  LORD  (1805-1883). 
The  Justice  of  Rienzi  the  Tribune  .        .        .     254 

MACAULAY,  THOMAS  BABBINGTON  (1800-1859). 

On  History 151 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE. 

Making  a  Friend 203 

MACLEOD,  NORMAN  (1812-1872). 

The  Fishwife  .  .  • 125 

MARVELL,  ANDREW  (1620-1678). 

Parody  on  the  Speech  of  Charles  II.  .  .  72 
MCDOWELL,  KATHARINE  SHERWOOD  BONNER 
(1849-1883). 

Hieronymus  and  Tiddlekins  .        .        .        -155 


3-8 

10 
309 

286 
141 


MELVILLE,  HERMAN  (1819-1891). 

A  Scene  in  the  Forecastle       .... 
MILTON,  JOHN  (1608-1674). 

The  All-conquering  Power  of  Truth 

Reform 

MONTAGU,  LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  (1690-1762). 

Italian  Life 

MORLEY,  JOHN. 

Popular  Culture 

MOTLEY,  JOHN  LOTHROP  (1814-1877). 

The  Siege  of  Leyden 139 

MULOCK,  Miss  (See  Craik). 

PAINE,  THOMAS  (1737-1809). 

The  Advent  of  Peace 215 

PALFREY,  JOHN  GORHAM  (1796-1881). 

The  Culture  of  the  Puritans   ....     338 
"  PANSY  "  (See  Alden,  Mrs.  G.  R.). 
PARKKR,  THEODORE  (1810-1860). 

Greatness  and  Ability      .         .         .         .  195 

PEABODY,  ANDREW  P. 

Cuvier 121 

PHILLIPS,  WENDELL  (1811-1884). 

Justice  for  the  Slave 191 

PITT,  WILLIAM  (1708-1778). 

On  Refusal  to  Negotiate  with  Napoleon          .       70 
POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN  (1809-1849). 

Torture   .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .100 

POPE,  ALEXANDER  (1688-1744). 

Homer's  Inventive  Power       ....     217 
PRESCOTT,  WILLIAM  HICKLINU  (1796-1859). 

The  Battle  of  Tlascala 234 

Isabella  of  Spain 315 

RALEIGH,  WALTER  (1552-1618). 

Raleigh's  Last  words  to  his  Wife   .        .        .     192 
RANDOLPH,  JOHN  (1773-1833). 

The  Militia  Bill 181 

READE,  CHARLES  (1814-1884). 

Lucy  and  the  "  Rajah  " in 

RICHARDSON,  SAMUEL  (1689-1761). 

The  Good  Man         >  g 

The  Good  Woman  ) 
ROBERTSON,  FREDERICK  W.  (1816-1853). 

The  Sabbath 302 

ROGERS,  SAMUEL  (1763-1855). 

In  Venice 350 

ROM  ILLY,  SIR  SAMUEL  (1757-1818). 

Palm  Sunday 133 

RUSKIN,  JOHN. 

Of  King's  Treasuries 168 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER  (1771-1832). 

The  Dominie  and  Meg  Merrilies  ...  51 
The  Story  of "  Waverley "  .  .  -56 
The  Tournament 332 

SHAW,  HENRY  W.  (1818-1885). 
The  Ethics  of  Laughter 197 


INDEX    TO    AUTHORS. 


SHELTON,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM  (1815-1881). 

A  Question  of  Supremacy  ....  142 
SIDNEY,  MARGARET  (See  Lothrop,  Harriet  Mulford). 
SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP  (1554-1586). 

In  Praise  of  Poetry 271 

SIMMS,  WILLIAM  GILMORE  (1806-1870). 

A  Sudden  Hurricane       .....     280 

Bess  and  the  Snake 340 

SMILES,  SAMUEL. 

Indolence         .......     331 

Home 343 

SMITH,  SYDNEY  (1771-1845). 

To  Lady  Holland 206 

SOUTH,  ROBERT  (1633-1716). 

Covetousness 131 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT  (1774-1843). 

To  Grosvenor  C.  Bedford  ....  202 
SPENSER,  EDMUND  (1553-1599). 

The  Irish  Bard 28 

STANLEY,  ARTHUR  PENRHYN  (1815-1881). 

To  his  Mother 104 

STEELE,  SIR  RICHARD  (1671-1729). 

The  Strength  of  True  Love     ....       47 

To  his  Wife 176 

STEPHENS,  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON  (1812-1883). 

The  Destiny  of  the  Republic  ....  73 
STOCKTON,  FRANK  R. 

Annie  and  Lawrence  .....  197 
STOWE,  HARRIET  BEECHER. 

Sam  Mends  the  Clock 24 

SUMNER,  CHARLES  (1811-1874). 

On  the  Kansas-Nebraska  Bill          ...       83 


SWETT,  SOPHIE. 

Barberry  Island 
SWIFT,  JONATHAN  (1667-1745). 

Country  Hospitality 


326 
310 


TAYLOR,  BAYARD  (1825-1878). 

The  Midnight  Sun 7<- 

TAYLOR  JEREMY  (1602-1667), 

Death,  the  Conqueror     .....     193 

THACKERY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  (1811-1863). 

Nil  Nisi  Bonum 105 

Tourists  on  the  Continent       ....      184 
The  Death  of  Colonel  Newcome    .         .         .     200 

THOREAU,  HENRY  DAVID  (1817-1862). 

Solitude 33 

Spring  Prospects 34 

WARD,  ARTEMUS  (See  Browne,  Charles  Farrar). 

WARNER,  CHARLES  DUDLEY. 
Garden  Ethics         ......       58 

WASHINGTON,  GEORGE  (1732-1799). 
The  Pleasure    of  Private  Life          ...       21 
Inaugural  Address 79 

WEBSTER,  DANIEL  (1782-1852). 

Reply  to  Hayne 36 

The  Constitution  and  the  Union     ...       38 

WEBSTER,  NOAH  (1758-1843). 
The  Standard  of  Speech          ....     353 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  G. 
Virtue  alone  Beautiful 120 

WIRT,  WILLIAM  (1772-1834). 

Burr  and  Blennerhasset 313 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


